


BBC Sherlock: Life After Death

by Wynsom



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant BBC Sherlock, Friendship, Gen, Hacking, Poisoning, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 02:08:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11773269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynsom/pseuds/Wynsom
Summary: "When all else fails, there are two men sitting arguing in a scruffy flat like they've always been there and they always will." Such is the stuff of Legends. Except as a single parent, John Watson has to wonder if being the "last refuge for the desperate, the unloved, the persecuted" as Sherlock's partner will make his greatest challenge—raising a child—all the more daunting.





	1. Poisoned Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> Be forewarned. Throughout this story, when John gets angry, he uses "salty" language.
> 
> ***
> 
> Thanks to my dear FF advisors (baillierj, englishtutor, and "youknowwho") who saw this story so long ago in its earliest drafts they may have forgotten it was a work in progress. Well, I hope it was worth the wait.  
> Also, special thanks to englishtutor's personal life-story that led to my using: "I can't desert my friend; I can't orphan my child."
> 
> All disclaimers apply. I claim no rights to the characters from the BBC show. I must again compliment the brilliant transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan to whom I am always greatly indebted.

88**88

John Watson hugged Rosie and gently kissed her soft cheek, "Good-bye, my lamb."

Rubbing morning sleep from her eyes, his honey-haired baby made exaggerated smacking sounds with her lips—air kisses. She switched to clutching her daddy's nose, a skill she had mastered months earlier and from which she never seemed to tire for it produced desirable results. With each of her squeezes she was rewarded by John's playful honking.

Reciprocally John was rewarded by a cascade of jubilant giggles from his eleven-month-old. He loved seeing how her vivid bluish-green eyes crinkled in delight. It made his heart ache in a good way.

This had become John's morning good-bye ritual on his way to the surgery. Whether he stood on the stairs outside his home or stayed just behind closed doors, he was unconcerned with what others thought about this display of affection. He had experienced life's fragility and uncertainty and would never again be caught failing to appreciate what he had _when_ he had it.

On any day, _ordinary_ can become _extra_ ordinary without warning, the result of an accident, a coincidence, or an unforeseen challenge. For most people, having their lives turned around could be traumatic, but for John the unexpected was a constant in his enduring friendship with Sherlock Holmes—as long as he associated with the detective, John's life would always be extraordinary. He would have it no other way.

But he could indulge only as long as Rosie remained safe.

Despite the pleasure of it all, John was torn. Had he the right to continuously risk his own life in this balancing act when there was now a little girl depending on him?

_"Look after Rosie…. Promise me….Promise me."_

Every morning since her death, he awoke hearing Mary imploring him. To his credit, John began each day intending to fulfill Mary's final request. It had taken months for him to accept her death and his friend's unwitting part in it. Strangling grief had delayed him from being proactive, so only recently John had taken the first steps toward normalizing what would always feel like an abnormal life to him. He had hired a childminder.

To his surprise, in Mary's will there was a substantial estate bequeathed to him that would more than adequately provide for their daughter until her majority at eighteen; even for a university education, if she wished it. As his own needs had always been simple, the money meant he could give Rosie the life he and Mary had wanted for her. Money was only a part of it. Security was paramount. Ensuring his daughter was safe and well-cared for meant he needed to be cautious in all his decisions. He no longer had a "back-up parent" to care for her. What would happen to Rosie if something happened to him? Mary's absence in their lives had made his presence more valuable in Rosie's. Still, it was not just finances and stability; it was also about love.

_No one can replace a mother's love—Mary was irreplaceable—but what about a father's love? Can I be the loving parent Rosie deserves?_

In the aftermath of his close-call at the bottom of a flooding well, John had a great deal to consider. His commitments to the most important people in his life tended to be polarizing. When sorting his priorities to his daughter, to his friend, even to himself, he had discovered that from one moment to the next his priorities might reshuffle, confusing him with contradictions.

 _Does wanting more from life make me a bad parent?_ But _more_ could mean trouble, and trouble was at the very center of Sherlock's life and work. John's involvement with the man would continue to put him in harm's way.

Even if one took every precaution, risks were inherent in just being alive. A wrong step in front of a bus, a small cut becoming a fatal infection, an unexpected terminal diagnosis, a slip on the ice…. Any of these things could happen to anyone on the most ordinary of days.

John recognized he was rationalizing with thin excuses. The excitement of saving lives and the rewards of camaraderie that had once satisfied him as an army surgeon and more than fulfilled him at Sherlock's side were also helping him cope with Mary's death now. Except fighting crime with Sherlock Holmes was _not_ choosing a safer course; and this was where John recognized his selfishness—he wanted and needed to continue with Sherlock and _The Work_.

Yet, in his heart, he knew whatever choices he had to make in life, Rosie must come first. Not only had he promised this to his dying wife, he had realized it months before—the first moment he had held his infant daughter in his arms. The fierce pull of paternal protectiveness from that moment would only grow; John would die for his daughter, but if he did, he would leave her an orphan.

_I can't desert my friend; I can't orphan my child._

Standing on the threshold, John gave Rosie a final kiss on her forehead and reluctantly but confidently handed her over to the welcoming arms of Erika Linna.

The twenty-six-year-old childminder from Finland had been documented and registered to John's satisfaction. That, however, was not enough for Sherlock who had enlisted Mycroft's formidable resources to vet assorted candidates before allowing anyone so much as an opportunity to interview for a place within the Watson household. The Holmes brothers had seen it as a strategic placement that could make John and Rosie vulnerable if the wrong person were appointed. Their combined thoroughness yielded the dependable, compassionate, well-educated, au-pair trained, child-centered, natural brunette with a bob cut, standing at 160 cm, with an ideal weight of 57.2 kg, who passed muster to _everyone's_ satisfaction.

Amazed that the Holmes brothers could ever reach a consensus on anything, John was most pleased that Rosie took readily to Erika and Erika seemed thoroughly delighted by her new charge.

_Trust issues be damned. Leaving my daughter in the care of another every morning is the greatest test, no?_

"Say bye-bye, Daddy!" The childminder leant her fawn-colored cheek against Rosie's porcelain one and waved with her free hand. Rosie raised both hands to mirror Erika's gesture. "Be be dada." Her little smile threatened to crumple as if she would miss him _._

 _"…Evidence of_ s _eparation anxiety appropriate for her developmental age…."_ John could hear _that_ approving voice as if Sherlock were standing next to him. And just as clearly he heard Mary's giggling tease. _"Look at him, the posh detective, a baby expert all of a sudden!"_

John coaxed his pained grin into a weak smile. He was touched by his daughter's age-appropriateness. Pride shone in his eyes. Just as quickly he turned away, hoping the sudden tears went unnoticed. He had cautioned himself about regretting that Mary would miss each of Rosie's milestones. All too often his rawest emotions were just beneath the surface—the slightest scratch would draw blood.

 _Tears, not blood._ _Stop exaggerating_. With his back still turned, John feigned a nose-scratch to smudge any trace of his weak moment and opened the front door.

"Right! Later." He shouted over his shoulder as he ascended the stone steps to street level. Ring if you need me."

**88**

Within his first hour at the surgery John had seen three patients and addressed or treated their seasonal winter ailments. However, without the gift of foresight, John had no way of knowing that his day was about to take a bad turn when the next patient walked into the examination room.

The chart indicated that Mr. Jay Kumar was in his mid thirties, but he looked quite feeble and much older. His dark, thinning hair seemed dull, his bronze complexion was ashen; dark circles appeared under his eyes and their whites were jaundiced. His lips were crusty and parched, and his face gaunt. He seemed tremendously burdened by the shoulder bag slung across his chest. On first impressions, John would have preferred this man had gone directly to an A&E, not a local surgery. Even a layman could easily discern that man did not appear well, not by a long chalk.

"Well, Mr. Kumar…" After introducing himself, John reviewed the chart as the patient lowered his bag to the floor and eased himself into the nearby chair. "You complain of nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, inability to keep food down, weakness, pain, and general fatigue. It says here you are non-smoker and are currently not taking any medications." John looked again at his patient. "Where is the pain?"

Kumar grimaced and struggled to elaborate. "A dull ache here." He pointed to his stomach, "but it hurts to cough and up here…" he indicated his upper abdomen, "...it feels like a knife."

"Let's examine you, shall we?" John gestured to the exam table as he pulled on a fresh pair of gloves.

Kumar said nothing. He glanced at the table with reluctance.

John immediately understood. For his less spry patients, the table height was often a problem. John would offer to help them step up and get settled as he did in this case for Kumar. Feeling the patient's forearm, John mentally noted how unexpected the level of muscle loss was in a man who was years younger than John himself.

"When did your symptoms first appear?" John helped the ill man recline for the abdominal exam.

"…'bout a week ago." Kumar looked toward the ceiling and cleared his throat like someone who had not spoken aloud for a long time.

"Any health problems before this?"

Kumar shook his head.

"Have you seen a doctor since your symptoms began?"

"No." Kumar's lids fluttered closed as he mumbled. "You're it. I waited… I thought it'd go away."

Despite John's care in touching his patient, Kumar moaned in extreme pain when John palpated his liver and pancreas. No lymphatic masses were felt in the groin, but his liver was swollen, as was his spleen. "You say it's a sharp pain, not burning?"

"…stabbing," Kumar gasped.

"Ah-hmm," John helped Kumar sit up, concealing his initial opinions about the man's serious ill health. Attaching the blood pressure cuff, John placed the stethoscope over the brachial artery in the antecubital fossa. He did not like what he heard. The man's blood pressure was dangerously lower than normal.

"Open your mouth and stick out your tongue." With the tongue depressor and torchlight, John examined the man's tongue, mouth, and throat, observing signs of dehydration and angular stomatitis possibly caused by iron deficiency. Further exam revealed no masses between the patient's cheeks and gums or on the palate. "Are you having trouble swallowing?"

Kumar nodded weakly. "…and speaking."

Directing Kumar to unbutton his shirt, John noted the hand tremors and the lack of coordination as the patient fumbled with the buttons. John palpated the man's lymph nodes behind the ears, in the neck, in the armpits, feeling for masses, and checked for rashes on the man's face and chest. The skin was jaundiced with several spider angiomas forming on his torso, but there were no overt dermatological eruptions. He listened to Kumar's lungs which were clear and heart rhythms finding them tachycardic. Kumar was unaccountably hot to the touch, more than expected from merely being dehydrated and malnourished.

"Was the onset of symptoms gradual…?" John's internal alarms now clanged despite his external calm.

"Mmm…all at once." Kumar nodded his head slowly and winced as if the tiny movement caused pain. "I just woke up feeling miserable…I didn't think it could get any worse. But it has…" Kumar trailed off.

 _Acute onset_.

"Do you recall eating or drinking anything out of the ordinary before your symptoms began?"

"Well before this, I've never had a problem with sushi, but I had thought it might have been the raw fish I had eaten at the Japanese restaurant the night before." Kumar coughed softly and winced again. "I only went because the email told me where to meet. After what happened to me, I wouldn't recommend the place—posh as it is—except, I can't remember the name. It's in Soho, a stone's throw from Carnaby Street."

"Sushi?" From Kumar's description, John thought he knew the place. If it were the one he was thinking, it had a respectable reputation.

The patient took a deep breath to continue. "Hell! I don't get out of my flat much. I work in IT…with a virtual team—my team. We only communicate on the network. We had just completed a security-test project and management wanted to talk…. They wanted us all together in real time in a real place. This was a first. It was strange to meet them all in person."

Wading through the patient's superfluous details, John remained focused on the possible causes. "Allergies to shellfish, perhaps?"

"No, no food allergies." Kumar seemed disappointed with John's question and briefly closed his eyes as if to recall the event from a week ago. His voice grew hoarse; the volume reduced to a low whisper. _"'To celebrate_ the end of an assignment _…'_ they had said, but I was suspicious _before_ I walked in; I thought we'd be getting a reprimand. At least my _pen test_ uncovered something that should've been reported to the system owner…."

"Pen test?" John remarked absent-mindedly as he wrote his comments in Kumar's chart. The file was new. A quick glance at the relationships status told him that Jay Kumar lived alone and listed no family members. In fact, there were no contacts at all. Having a baseline comparison made diagnosing a patient easier, but Kumar had never visited this surgery and John did not have a way to check through NHS records to determine if he had had any prior serious health concerns. Even so, John feared that Kumar may now be seeking care beyond the critical threshold where anything other than extreme intervention could save his life. Calling the A&E and transferring Kumar to the hospital for immediate attention was the best plan.

"Yeah, pen test." Kumar mumbled as if he needed to explain. "A _pen_ etration test …. on a computer system …checking for security weaknesses…"

"Did any colleagues with you that night get sick, too?" John remained on topic to complete the thorough medical history in the patient's chart.

"Dunno…" Kumar turned peaky and John grabbed a bin. Kumar juddered with nausea, heaving as though his body was about to reject his stomach's contents, but he produced nothing, not even bile.

Rubbing the man's back in gentle, soothing circles, John waited until Kumar's shoulders relaxed.

"Well, there was one bloke, Mitchell, who came by my flat two days later…" Kumar offered, as if the memory had been shaken loose by the violent spasms. "I was surprised to see him, actually. We usually don't know where the other colleagues live. Our work is all remote, as I said. He seemed worried when he saw how sick I was. He helped me make tea. Haven't seen him since."

"Tea?" John's hackles rose at this. A switch had been thrown in his mind and he became opened to nuances in Kumar's narrative that he had been missing up until that moment. "You also drank _tea_ in the restaurant?"

Kumar nodded slowly and drawled with exaggerated nonchalance to emphasize the subtext. " _Lots_ of tea."

Everything seemed suddenly quite clear to John. Not just Kumar's innuendo, but the rapid onset and intensity of Kumar's condition were highly suspicious. There was no mistaking the tell-tale manifestations of the patient's illness which strongly suggested the radioactive sickness linked to a string of unsolved murders involving Russian expatriates. The most prominent case of assassination was that of Alexander Litvinenko who drank tea poisoned with radioactive polonium while meeting former Russian colleagues at the Millennium hotel in central London. Although this crime occurred in 2006, the inquiry into the murder took almost a full decade; In January, Sir Robert Owen, the Inquiry Chairman, finally published his final report into the death of Alexander Litvinenko declaring the case closed. Meantime, other stories of political murders by poison continued to horrify the public and fascinate Sherlock, of course.

 _Is Kumar another victim?_ Sherlock's influence had rubbed off on John, enough to make him skeptical about coincidence.

"It could be coincidence," Kumar struggled to control his ragged voice. "But I haven't been able to log on to the Internet…my access's been denied now. Maybe Mitchell told our employer…about how sick I was..." He massaged his head. A few wiry black strands had come away. "Oh, yeah _. This_ is strange. My hair. I've been losing it. More than normal."

John felt the idiot for not realizing that Kumar had been speaking all this time like someone fearing a listening device had bugged the exam room. Mentally shaking off his speculation despite the shivers up his spine, John returned his attention to the patient's immediate needs. He hated when his instincts—humming like angry bees—intruded on his professional sensibilities.

"Mr. Kumar. I am glad you've come in today. I'd like to admit you to hospital where they can initiate treatment for dehydration, loss of appetite, headache. They'll perform tests to determine what's causing your symptoms.…" John would not say aloud what he suspected.

Sherlock's warning: _"It's_ _a_ _capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence..."_ was replaying in his head _._ Not knowing the patient's history of exposure, John did not have all the evidence. He could merely assert that Kumar's presenting features coincided with a diagnosis he suspected. It was possible the symptoms might also be attributed to much more common conditions, such as GI infections and bone marrow failure caused, for example, by drugs, other toxins, or infections.

"Now, if you'll just wait here while I make the arrangements…" Before leaving the room, John glanced once more at his patient's chart. Jay Kumar had no traces of Hindi, Bengali, or any other accent, but John felt it important to verify his patient's country of origin on the outside chance there was a Russian connection. "I see you've lived in the UK for nearly twenty-five years. It says here you are of Indian descent. Any family you might want us to call to tell them where we are sending you?"

Abrupt alarm took over Kumar's features as his expression moved through pain to regret before hardening behind a dour mask. "Just me. No one else." He shook his head and hissed. "Please, keep them out of it." For the first time, Kumar looked John straight in the eye.

In that brief contact John noticed more than the deep brown irises floating in their yellowed sclerae. He saw willful defiance and rage.

_Defying whom? Enraged… that he has been poisoned?_

Jolted by this new awareness that passed between them, John perceived that Kumar _knew_ what was happening to him and that he had not come to seek medical intervention at this stage—as it was obviously futile—especially at a local GP surgery. He had another agenda, then. What it was, John could not even guess. Where was the sense in seeking medical attention and then not benefitting from it? Was Kumar contaminating others as a walking dirty bomb? John hoped this was not the case. Maybe it was something simpler: the man didn't want to die alone. Given Kumar's self-described social isolation, had he died it would have been days—maybe weeks over the winter months—before anyone would notice.

No longer in doubt that he might be raising a false alarm—proof would be definitive once they had obtained urine or fecal samples and tested for the presence of a radioactive poison—John needed to get his patient the proper medical attention. If what he suspected proved true, there were protocols to follow, chief among them, alerting the authorities. Since the Litvinenko incident, a hierarchy of emergency-response agencies had been established to address the possibilities of new occurrences. Kumar's condition fit the pattern of suspicious poisonings. While he was basing his decision on a preliminary medical assessment, John believed it likely his patient had ingested a radioactive poison by drinking tea in the restaurant and needed to be tested, functions his surgery was not equipped to perform.

To ensure none of the patients in the waiting room might hear, John sought the privacy of a GP office and shut the door before dialing the emergency number for the Department of Health to begin the process.

"It's just a suspicion," he told Dr. Sandra Robson of the Health Protection Agency in Colindale. "But the patient is presenting with unexplained emesis and hair loss. His liver is swollen, there's evidence that other organs might be affected, and I wouldn't be surprised if you found evidence of bone marrow failure. Yes, I am aware these can be caused by other pathologies, but his symptoms are consistent with acute radiation sickness. It would be prudent to determine if his internal contamination is a result of polonium poisoning."

He wondered how the agency might respond to such an unusual and speculative diagnosis by a GP from a local surgery.

Yet, Dr. Robson took him seriously, dead seriously, and assured him that the authorities would address his suspicions. Confirming the location of his surgery, she asked for his patience while she put him on hold. When she returned to the line, her voice had an undertone of urgency. "A team will be there shortly. Tell me, Dr. Watson, what safeguards have you made to ensure the contamination has not spread?"

"My understanding from reports I've read is that a person internally contaminated by polonium poisoning poses no threat to those treating him, as long as normal hygiene precautions and practices for microbial contamination are followed—which I did." John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "For all our sakes, I would love to be proven wrong."

"So would we all," Dr. Robson agreed. "Do not allow _any_ of your patients who are present to leave and please ask those who have left to return at once. Otherwise we will need their addresses."

Within twenty minutes, faster than John would have expected, teams of agents and medical personnel representing an alphabet soup of governmental agencies descended upon the modest surgery alarming the other patients despite all assurances that everything was fine. By the time they had secured Kumar and his belongings for transport, he was disoriented slipping in and out of consciousness, scarcely able to speak coherently. After they had whisked the sick man by special ambulance to a classified destination within University College London Hospital, John did not hold false hope that Kumar would ever leave on his own two feet.

For the remainder of his day at the surgery, John side-stepped the multi-agencies teams as they Geiger-countered the rooms for trace contamination, comforted each of his patients and staff who were agitated by the incident, took urine samples from everyone present at the time of Kumar's visit—including himself—and in between exams, tried to quash his own rampant thoughts.

_Why Kumar?_

John wished he had Sherlock's analytical insight to help him answer this question. Although the poisoning death of Alexander Litvinenko in 2006 had been years before they met, Sherlock and John often shared theories and discussions with each new bit of information that resurfaced in the news. Sherlock's radar had seemed particularly attuned to every development in the ongoing MI6 investigations that had begun nearly a decade ago and continued into the present. So far as John knew, Sherlock was not working any case linked to the alleged assassinations. It appeared that the detective had merely remained on the periphery—as a distant onlooker—while the multi-agency task force gathered and managed new information. John never doubted, however, that Sherlock had stored all the data from his years of observations securely in his Mind Palace.

With critics of the Kremlin dying unexpectedly in recent years and with some of these killings occurring outside Russian territory on British soil, John did not want to tempt fate by getting any further involved in Kumar's case other than required by his medical ethics. This was for one very important reason: Rosie. There could be dangerous repercussions—personal ones—by getting tangled in these deadly incidents of deliberate retaliations carried out by a world power.

John's concerns arose from the troubling headlines several days ago reporting that the radiation expert who had investigated and verified the "political assassination" of Alexander Litvinenko had 'committed suicide'. The D. C. on that case had considered the suicide of the scientist irregular and suspicious: what else could be said about extensive, self-inflicted stab wounds caused by two different knives? It was not credible that anyone could have inflicted such injuries without losing consciousness before morbidity ensued. What had driven the otherwise "good family man, a loving father" into swift depression and suicide was a mystery still, but the psychological autopsy revealed that his behavior had changed immediately after he returned from a business trip to Moscow.

Nor was this the first case of intimidation tactics used against officials and investigators accusing the Russian government of crimes. The sudden deaths or suicides associated with Russia's political opponents—including the whistle-blowers in Russia's sports-doping scandal—were aimed at silencing critics not just in Russian, but abroad. In each of these cases, the Russian government typically asserted plausible deniability. What's more, the perpetrators of the attacks could not be traced to any individuals despite the discovery that the victims were sickened by the poisons-of-choice favored by Russian assassins.

000

"It's both an art and a science that has been perfected for over five centuries in Russia." Sherlock had begun his lecture—not unlike a professor in a Uni hall before chemistry students—but instead he was expounding in Lestrade's office.

John recalled that night quite vividly. It had been mere days before Mary had gone into hiding in an attempt to flee her destiny. They had been following the Thatcher busts mystery, but Sherlock—still manic since his liberation from exile and waiting for Moriarty's next move—had chosen to interrupt his investigation to enlighten Lestrade about a separate issue.

John had been standing beside a fidgety Sherlock while Lestrade had remained seated behind his desk. The less-receptive DI, knackered after a hard day, had not looked happy. He had been kind enough to let them invade his office at such a late hour. Sherlock, however, had not seemed to register the courtesy that had been extended to them when he had launched into his exposé about the disturbing number of Kremlin opponents turning up dead over the years.

"There's nothing novel about assassination by poison. Chickened laced with arsenic killed the Grand Duke of Moscow in 1453. Enemies of the tsars were poisoned for centuries. Even Lenin nearly died from an attempt on his life when he was shot with poisoned bullets. He survived, and not unexpectedly, developed a keen interest in poison, establishing a secret lab to test new poisons on Soviet prisoners. Soon it had become the weapon of choice against enemies of the state. There is an intriguing possibility both Lenin and Stalin had died by poison. Fast forward to modern times, it's still an ideal weapon in assassinations because it is hard to trace, unless you know what to look for and you can acquire samples quickly."

"Cut the history lesson." Greg had sighed with impatience. "What's this _really_ about?"

"I'm sure this could have waited until morning, Greg," John had pulled a face at Sherlock to remind him to be civil to their friend. "But he's talking about the breaking news announced on the telly tonight. It seems the death of _that_ Surrey resident was ruled 'unsuspicious.'"

" _That_ Surrey resident, which John is trivializing…," Sherlock had protested "… has been identified as a former Russian banker!" There had been an excited gleam in the detective's eyes and a fire of excitement in his voice, the distinct manifestations of Holmes on a scent. "He had fled the country after implicating both the Mafia and the Russian state in fraudulent practices. The autopsy revealed traces of a rare, poisonous flowering plant found in his stomach, and just so we're clear, _Gelsemium elegans_ is a lethal plant favored by Chinese and Russian assassins. How is that _not_ suspicious?"

"Oh, for God's sake!" Lestrade had snapped; his gravelly voice was tight with frustration. "Don't pin _this_ on me, Sherlock. The Surrey Police made that call…" The DI leant back in his chair and gestured toward the piles of paperwork on his desk. "I've got too many pressing investigations right here in London. I can't go around questioning every borough's decision. From what I understand, an inquest into the causes and circumstances of a death had ruled out homicide; the case is closed."

" _Idiots!_ Even if the man had been given to grazing in his neighbor's flower beds, his death could not have been ruled _from natural causes!_ " Vexation raised the pitch of Sherlock's voice. "Plant poison _killed_ him. I doubt he ingested it voluntarily, he must have been tricked. How else would you explain a 41-year-old man in robust health, an avid jogger, dropping dead—"

"—from a heart attack, Sherlock!" Standing and slamming his hands on the desktop, Lestrade had leant forward, his lips pursed in an angry scowl. When his brown eyes met Sherlock's laser stare, both had studied the other in stony silence.

Breaking away first Lestrade had wagged his head. "Listen, you two. You're barking up the wrong tree. I don't have authority to reopen the case in another district even if you suspect a miscarriage of justice. And as much as I know you won't leave this alone, I'm _not_ suggesting you go take up your fight with the Surrey district. Sometimes, we have to pick our battles… " Giving a resigned shrug, Lestrade had slumped back into his chair.

Acknowledging the Detective Inspector's fatigue Sherlock had allowed his voice to soften. "After five hundred years, these elite Russian assassins are quite skilled at it, Lestrade. Of course they will be able to hide traces of their handiwork. It mimics a sudden heart attack, a stroke, a brain embolism, assorted organ failure and while these might be ruled as the actual causes of death, the catalysts were likely poison. If everyone continues to look away, they will keep getting away with it."

Greg had looked too forlorn to respond and John had taken pity on the man.

"We'll talk about this later _, right_ , Sherlock?" John had tugged on Sherlock's coat sleeve, indicating they should go. "See you, Greg." By persuading Sherlock to leave on cue, John had successfully rescued Lestrade from the encyclopedic knowledge of assorted poisons which Sherlock had been on the verge to impart; but John had not been so lucky. During their taxi ride, the art and science of poisons had been the sole topic. By the time John had boarded the late train home, he had endured an earful of the most efficacious methodologies used throughout the ages and the symptoms they were known to produce.

000

The devastation of Mary's death and all the sorrow they endured in the aftermath had prevented Sherlock from pursuing the Surrey poisoning case. However the details of Sherlock's discourse from six months ago had seeped like doses of poison in John's ear, contaminating his thoughts in the present.

John worried. Would there be retribution for merely _diagnosing_ Jay Kumar and _alerting_ the authorities that the patient's radiation sickness had been caused by polonium poisoning? Had John put a target on his own back? Trained assassins had silenced not only political enemies but those who aided the investigators as well. Remembering the scientist who had verified the poison used to kill Litvinenko had been driven to commit suicide, John could not help but wonder: had the good family man been coerced? How far would _they_ go?

John bit his lip. _What have I stepped in now?_

88**88


	2. Troublesome

**88**

The unending parade of afternoon patients and disruptions by investigators at the surgery had left John drained and out of sorts when he boarded the evening train. Nor could he shake his disquiet at the station carpark. Head bowed under the burden of distracting thoughts, he hardly noticed the wintry temperatures as he unlocked his car and motored the short distance home. At that hour he didn't even try looking for a spot in front of his building and felt fortunate to secure parking in a side street nearby.

He listened for the click of the car locks and bounded briskly up the street, attempting to work off his anxiety with an energized pace. Once he rounded the corner, however, the clear view of someone waiting at the wrought-iron gate to his basement flat broke his stride.

Wary, John shaded his eyes against the glare of the lamplight and with relief recognized the familiar silhouette of Sherlock in his greatcoat and scarf.

"Business or pleasure?" Curiosity narrowed John's eyes as he approached his friend.

"Is there a difference?" Sherlock's eyebrows shot up.

John's soft chuckles elicited Sherlock's quick, quirky grin. When their amusement died down, they stared at each other before John looked away.

_Pleasure_ was the way John would have answered his own question.

It had been a month since their ordeal at Sherrinford; even longer since their estranged relationship caused by Mary's death had begun to heal in earnest. Certainly having Sherlock back in his life kept some of John's loneliness at bay, although there was more to it than just recapturing their early camaraderie in Baker Street—before Sherlock's shattering "suicide," before John's life had again been devastated when Mary died. _That_ partnership was no more. Too much had happened for them to return to old times. Perhaps there was some truth to the expression "you cannot go home again," but John had found the shift reaffirming. Their companionship had grown, matured, and what they shared especially now had never been more equitable or genuine.

"Coming in, I expect?" John swung open the gate and descended to the porch way of his basement flat, knowing full well that Sherlock had no intention of standing out in the cold to conduct whatever business had brought him here.

That John's demeanor had changed from worry to welcoming as soon as they spotted each other had not escaped Sherlock's notice. And with little persuasion, John had invited him in. Sherlock regretted that the news he brought would likely fracture the peace John had hoped to find in the refuge of his home, but he also knew John intuited this and still had not refused him.

"If it's not _too_ much _trouble_." Sherlock flashed a gratified smile and followed his friend down the steps.

"Trouble?" John lightly mocked Sherlock's feigned politeness, glancing over his shoulder as he unlocked and pushed opened the front door. "You, mate, are a _trouble_ magnet."

"And yet you continue to welcome me."

As he entered his home, John's amusement gave way to sudden hesitation and he spun about to face Sherlock. "Hey, listen—" He put up a hand to stop his friend. "Whatever _trouble_ you're bringing," he whispered, "…um….can it _wait_ a bit?"

"You know my methods, John." With curiosity Sherlock studied the placement of John's hand on his chest—was it accident that it rested over his heart? "I text when it _cannot_ wait."

As John removed his hand, Sherlock raised his eyes and observed the all-consuming concern about Rosie on his friend's face. It gave him pause. John's child disallowed the spontaneity to which they had once been accustomed, but it was an adjustment the detective was willing to make. Sherlock offered John an understanding nod. "Of course, attend to Rosie first."

Meeting his friend's gaze, John felt renewed affection for the man looking back at him. This was the _improved_ Sherlock, the one who had shed his arrogance for humility, the _good_ brother who had begun spending time at Sherrinford playing duets with his incarcerated sister to amend their lost connection, the one who was certainly demonstrating restraint and patience as they stood in the doorway, especially since John could tell how eager Sherlock was to discuss the matter. How much his friend had changed.

"Besides," Sherlock gave John a broad grin and clapped his hands decisively, "a visit in person has _other_ purposes. You have been most unreliable in giving me the scientific data I require on your daughter's progress—"

"—Right, then." John interrupted his friend with a knowing half-smile and turned to go inside. He didn't need to hear Sherlock's prolonged fabrication concealing another truth that was more than obvious; Sherlock actually derived _pleasure_ in spending time with Rosie and him.

Behind his friend's back Sherlock's smile slipped from pleasant to sad. Each time he passed over the Watson threshold he experienced the painful memory he refused to delete—when the privilege had been denied him. Ever indebted to John's steadfast friendship, Sherlock left his hubris at the door like a pair of dirty shoes.

Tonight would _not_ be the first time within the past month that Sherlock would be observing the lengthy evening routine in which John established a parental bond with Rosie. His friend was natural at it. John was triggered by love for his child, not science, but Sherlock's extensive research had corroborated the importance of such practices and the long-term effects on the mental, emotional, and physical well-being of the child's development. This knowledge kept Sherlock mindful of John's enormous responsibility at home in addition to those at the surgery or in their work together. Most importantly, Mary had conveyed a value on Sherlock's life. He owed it to John to be worthy of her sacrifice. Lending support with Rosie in whatever fashion required was the least he could do.

Rosie had just finished her bath time. Before changing the baby into her pyjamas, Erika carried her into the living room to greet the men. Wrapped in a yellow duck-pattern towel Rosie squealed upon seeing her "dada" and reached out her arms. John took hold of his daughter, giving her smiles and late-day whiskery kisses that made her shriek with laughter.

Erika took a step back and warmly looked on. "Your brilliant daughter can stand without holding on to anything. She is quite steady on her feet. I hope you will be here when she takes her first steps, but..." Erika pulled out her mobile phone, "...no worry! I will take video."

"You won't wait for Daddy, my lamb?" John rubbed noses with his daughter as she grabbed his ears.

Consulting the compilation of child-rearing facts in his head, Sherlock muttered softly. "That might be unwise to have her postpone her initial attempts. It will take approximately six months _after_ she takes her first steps to develop a more mature gait."

"No one is stopping my Rosie's progress," John replied in a playfully high-pitched voice as he gazed upon his daughter. "Right, Honey?"

"Dadadada." Rosie answered in an agreeable tone; her smile revealed the neat row of four top teeth.

"See!" The child minder added with enthusiasm. "Little Rosie understands what we tell her. She has a lot to say herself. Right now, next to 'dada,' her favorite word is 'uh-oh.' I just wish I could make more sense of all the other babbling"

"At eleven months, two weeks, and three days—no need to include the time in my calculations—Rosie _should_ have a wide range of speech sounds and be mimicking adult speech." Sherlock tilted his head with keen interest and spontaneously launched into his daunting speed-talk for the edification of everyone within earshot. "By 'babbling' I expect you mean repetitious sounds with consonant-vowel content. There is a difference between vocalizations such as these compared to those without consonant-vowel content or repetition. As you know the left hemisphere of the brain controls the movement of the right side of the body. The left side of the brain is also believed to control language. Neuroscientists have determined that babies babble more out of the right side of their mouths and this babbling _means_ something. Have you observed if these 'babbles' are emanating from the right side of Rosie's mouth?" Sherlock's fascination with all aspects of Rosie Watson's developing brain and behavior kindled a fierce radiance in his eyes.

Bewildered by both his fast-talk and the full intensity of his laser-like stare aimed at her, Erika stammered. Feeling awkward, she dropped her gaze. "I, I, I'm…sorry. I didn't think to observe such things…"

"Charming, Sherlock! Hope Rosie doesn't try mimicking _your_ speech patterns." John's eyes crinkled with humor as he adjusted his squirming daughter in his arms and turned toward Erika. "I know it's only been a month for you, but _he_ ," John inclined his head toward his friend, "takes a bit of getting used to. Pay him no mind, Erika. You've doing just fine. I have no plans to publish a research paper on Rosie's milestones despite the data he's gathering."

"And why are you averse to documenting her growth patterns?" Sherlock turned to John with open astonishment. "You know this period from birth to one year is full of rapid proliferation—seven hundred new neural connections forming _every_ second—and is the foundation for all learning, health, and behavior." Sherlock leant over the baby held by her father and peered directly in the blue eyes that looked unblinkingly back at him. "If the brain's architecture does not form as expected, it can lead to disparities. Babbling, facial expressions, and gestures are the manifestation of young children _naturally_ reaching out for interaction." The detective grinned ear-to-ear as he spoke, waving his long arms and exaggerating what he presumed was a happy face for the child's benefit. "Adults _must_ respond with the same kind of vocalizing and gesturing," he said through clenched teeth.

Rosie did not return his smile, neither did she wail in fright, which was testament to her courage. Instead, she huffed and turned toward her dada, yanking on his earlobe, showing general disinterest with Sherlock's antics.

Disappointed in his failure to elicit "babble," Sherlock straightened his posture and pulled at his own earlobe unaware he was mimicking Rosie. "I see. This is the age in which the child is shy and nervous with strangers…"

_"Sherlock!"_ John's voice took on a gentle but firm tone. "You are _no_ stranger, but you're overdoing it and even Rosie can tell it's wrong. The key word is _naturally_. It is _natural_ for most healthy, well-adjusted adults—well maybe not for you—to respond to a baby. We can't help ourselves. We gaze. We smile and make silly faces. Our pitch rises higher and we engage in baby talk—"

"—Infant-directed speech," Sherlock corrected, "requiring hyper-articulated vowels with happy affect. That's what I did wrong…"

"I assure you that as long as we treat her with _genuine_ love and attention, and provide her with the proper nourishment, Rosie will develop normally into an ordinary, happy child."

"It's as I feared." Sherlock huffed in mock despair. " _Normal, ordinary! Boring_. The trait of human intelligence is known to be significantly influenced by genetic factors. Given her parentage, she has the potential for so much more."

"And with you as her godfather, I don't think she'll _ever_ be bored." Smiling, John lifted his daughter up over his head and cooed as she looked down at him. "Right, Rosie? This will be a work in progress for us all." The baby giggled and stretched out her arm to stick her finger in her daddy's mouth. "Mmmm! Delicious ladeeee fingers. Myyyyy faaaavorite!" John hyper-articulated the vowels with a happy affect and carried Rosie into the nursery.

After giving Sherlock a sidelong glance—in which Sherlock detected her amused grin—Erika followed.

000

When Rosie had been tucked in bed and Erika had retired for the evening to her nearby flatshare, John sat down in his customary kitchen chair facing the stove—famished and fatigued—to a reheated meal set on the bare table. Sherlock had joined him over a bowl of soup; _pinaattikeittoa,_ Erika had called it.

The fridge hummed steadily in the quiet Watson home; assorted aromas of food and the scents of baby lotions mixed and rose on the thermals of the circulating heat. Absorbing the ambiance, Sherlock found himself counting the rhythmic soft breaths picked up by the sensitive video baby monitor as Rosie slumbered. John had set the color display on the table in front of him so he could watch her as he ate.

In his friend's slumped posture Sherlock read the weight of a single father's responsibility to his daughter and how the loss of his wife had increased that burden, however much he loved Rosie. Since walking in the door, John had been committed to his domestic duties, attending to his own need for dinner once Rose's needs had been completed. Indeed, the relative calm they were experiencing now had been hard-won.

Yet, Sherlock could not let his misgivings about his business deter him. He deemed it _kinder_ —this reason always infuriated John—to get to the point rather than dance about the topic; but Sherlock detected in John an unusual unease. Knowing John's inability to vocalize what was bothering him would make him introspective, irascible, Sherlock proceeded cautiously. "So, bad day, was it?"

"Worse than most." John admitted as he hunched over his bowl to study its contents—another Finnish favorite. Enjoying the flavor of the warmed spinach soup, he watched the halved boiled egg that garnished the surface sink into the creamy green mixture.

"Perhaps I know why." Sherlock leveled his gaze on John.

John locked eyes and swallowed his last scoop. Preparing himself, he put his spoon down and planted his elbows on the table.

"The Home Office is a bit nervous about a report they received today. A man diagnosed with radiation sickness was admitted to hospital. His symptoms had an alarming similarity to the assassinations of vocal Russian dissenters."

John sighed and dropped his face his hands.

"This victim of radioactive polonium poisoning was admitted to UCLH from your surgery—which I don't think is coincidence—since the referring doctor on record was a John H. Watson. _This_ Watson's referral suggested rather specific toxicology to test a person considered at risk of Po-210 intake. The urine bioassay sample confirmed this, by the way."

"I am not at liberty to discuss this, Sherlock." Uncovering his face, John thrust himself back in his chair and straightened his shoulders. He frowned at his friend and lifted his chin defiantly. "You know it's unethical for me to give you information about any of my patients—"

"He's not your patient. Well, not anymore. Now, he's a matter of National Security."

With that bit of news, the penny had finally dropped.

Sherlock confirmed it. "Within five hours of being admitted, he died of acute radiation sickness. He's now part of an active National Security investigation regarding radioactive polonium poisoning. It was Mycroft who alerted me that Dr. John H. Watson has become a person of interest and might even be sought for questioning."

"What?" John's jaw dropped as he processed the news. "Wait! The hospital never rung me with the results…" He gave a sad, frustrated shake of his head, then slammed a fist on the table. The spoon and the soup vaulted before settling in place with nothing spilled. "Is MI6 looking for me, then? Why me? I was only the _referring_ doctor. He was under the care of the hospital once admitted."

Admiration for his friend tugged the edges of Sherlock's mouth. He chose not to hide his smile. "Apparently, they are curious. Y _ou_ have been the only astute doctor to recognize the symptoms on exam—a little _too_ astute according to the dullards at MI6—since early symptoms of lethal polonium poisoning can be attributed to a wide range of other chemical toxins."

"My patient's symptoms were late stage..." John corrected hardly hearing the praise for his medical acumen. Rather his stress levels climbed. "Getting embroiled in any part of this international intrigue worries me. If my cooperation with the investigating agencies becomes ... a danger in my personal life... Well, with Rosie in the picture...you know... I can't be too cautious."

There it was, the crux of John's fear—Rosie.

_This would take some getting used to_. Sherlock noted his friend's apprehension, aware this responsibility was new for them both. The "bravest and kindest and wisest man" who was ordinarily the very definition of courage had more at stake with Rosie depending on him. His life was not his own to sacrifice, his death would have greater consequences.

Sherlock wondered how he might ameliorate what he identified as John's anxious state of mind. "John, you are getting ahead of yourself. You personally should _not_ be in danger for merely recognizing the symptoms and referring a patient for care. If this patient died as a result of a political assassination—and it _is_ likely—you are no doubt an insignificant pawn in Moscow's far greater long-term strategy that threatens Western political stability, social cohesion, economic prosperity and national security." John seemed hardly assuaged by the bleak scenario, so Sherlock took a different tact. "Look. It's protocol. You were not informed about the death of your referral or the toxicology report due to the classified nature of this ongoing investigation."

"Maybe." John conceded reluctantly. "Dunno. Can't stop thinking that diagnosing him has made me a target. _Any_ doctor worth his salt would have made the same—"

"—Not just _any_ doctor. An _exceptional_ doctor—" Sherlock argued. "You do yourself a disservice when you deny—"

"— _Any_ doctor," John insisted, too annoyed to give over fuming and acknowledge the compliment within Sherlock's interjection, "...would have recognized radiation sickness. It has quite an unvarying set of symptoms. While having a patient simply walk in with the condition is simply hard to believe, it's not impossible to make the connection, especially if one's paying attention to global news." He shook his head with worry and pushed himself free of the table. "Anyway, what does MI6 want with me?"

"The obvious questions they need answered," Sherlock folded his hands allowing his two index fingers to form a church steeple under his chin, "are where had the poisoning occurred and why was this man targeted?"

"Bollocks!" John rose to his feet and raised his eyes toward the ceiling. " _Then_ unfortunately I know too much. My patient told me things while I examined him." John heaved a deep, exasperated sigh. " _Why was he targeted?_ He implied that he thought it had something to do with a recent IT project. _Where, you say?_ Probably a Japanese restaurant in Soho. He couldn't remember the name, but that it was a stone's throw from Carnaby Street! That's it." John leant over the table with his clenched fists planted on either side of his bowl of half-eaten soup to stare down at Sherlock. "What do you and Mycroft think? Am I in serious trouble with the Home Office?"

Sherlock stood, his eyes both piercing and impenetrable. "After they grill you with thousands of questions and conclude you're not a terrorist or working for the FSB, maybe they'll want to shake your hand—"

"Seriously?" John huffed a laugh of uncertainty and eyed his friend.

"Seriously, yes. Anyway, we must be prepared for the next phase. If you would allow, I'd like to help."

Nodding, John sat back down and gnawed his lower lip with worry. With Sherlock's news, he had lost his appetite. He pushed his soup bowl aside and groaned softly in weariness and frustration. "Why did the man come to the surgery, _my_ surgery, and not go instead to a hospital? And why, of _all_ people," John's intoned with building anger, "was I the _bloody-hell_ _lucky_ one to have seen him today?"

Sherlock gave a scant shake of the head before he allowed a wry grin. "It's clear to me, John. Being a trouble magnet is something we both have in common."

**88**


	3. Night Watch

 

_**88**_

"... We are _not_ calling you to an Inquest, Dr. Watson, as the death of the patient Jayadeep Kumar had been overseen by medical professionals in UCLH," explained the Chief of Nuclear Medicine at UCLH Dr. Samuel Fitch, speaking on behalf of the HPA in a firm but cordial voice. "However, National Security regarding this matter has been invoked. An around-the-clock investigation regarding the criminal aspects of this poisoning incident is under way."

The predawn phone call may have woken John, but he had become instantly alert to the urgency of the matter. With the mobile pressed to his ear he stood at attention in t-shirt and pyjamas bottoms, the toes of his bare feet wiggling in the carpet beside his bed, waiting to hear what WAS expected of him.

Fitch continued speaking in the absence of a reply. "Your earliest appearance this morning at a preliminary enquiry to make a statement and answer a few questions would assist us in moving forward on this highly classified matter. We ask you not to reference or discuss this openly with anyone who is unauthorized—I'm sure you understand. Shall we say 7.30?" Fitch phrased it like a question.

"Okay, yes. 7.30."

Fitch gave John the details where they would meet and then ended with an apology about calling so early.

After John rang off, he was not sure how he sounded to the caller or if his slurred voice had exposed his fatigue. His sleep had been fitful at best, filled with foreboding images. Loud explosions had rocked him with memories of war; lurking, shadowy figures had swirled green elixirs of poison potions into glasses of white milk; he had been startled several times during the night believing he had heard Rosie wailing, but outside the dreams his home was quiet. As dawn approached, John had settled once more in a light sleep in which he became aware of a familiar presence hovering nearby but tantalizingly elusive— _Mary?_ —before Fitch's phone call had woken him.

John blinked at the illuminated clock on the bedside table and sat off to one side of his bed. It read 5.34. Wide awake now, John realized one thing for sure—he was feeling vulnerable as all hell about being involved in the Kumar case. His mind had been put at ease the previous evening thanks to Sherlock's feedback, but with the morning call, all his anxieties had returned in full force. Could cooperating with the agencies investigating the polonium poisoning death put him in danger?

 _Shite! It's starting_. He stood and jogged in place to get his blood moving, hoping to shake off his dread; it did him little good to relieve his stress.

As he hurriedly dressed, John rang for Erika at her flatshare. When her flatmate picked up, John first apologized for calling so early and asked for Erika. Once his childminder came to the phone John apologized again before asking her to come over a bit earlier for Rosie. After, he tiptoed into the nursery to peer down on his sleeping daughter, aware it was too early to wake her for their good-bye ritual. For no good reason he could name, John was uneasy about missing their routine; he knew it was inadvisable to disrupt a sleeping child.

Putting his disquiet aside, he greeted Erika with whispered apologies when she arrived. He shrugged into his jacket as she shed her coat, and each hurried past the other on a blast of frigid air from the opened front door.

A black saloon car was waiting for him outside his flat, its motor idling. John ignored it. Spurning what he presumed was a grand gesture from Mycroft—one that only made him feel more powerless than Fitch's early-morning, sleep-disrupting call already had done—John preferred motoring his Audi to the train to catch the 6.39 to Charing Cross Station.

The tinted backseat window slid down as he walked past. A man he did not recognize spoke in clipped, commanding tones. "Dr. Watson. May we escort you…?"

John detected a slight, foreign accent he could not place. _Eastern European?_ Maybe, maybe not. Was he letting paranoia have free rein?

Whatever else the man planned to say, John did not wait to hear. His heart thudded loudly, his breath came rapidly and his legs quickened their pace, carrying him away from the car and to the end of the block as swiftly as possible. The black vehicle followed behind him, but the man inside did not repeat his invitation. As an uncooperative John approached the corner, the stranger toggled his window closed; the car pulled smoothly into the empty street.

John exhaled a tightly-held breath as he watched the car drive out of sight, more aware than ever of his vulnerability. First light had already cleared the horizon, but it was still a bit early for foot or vehicular traffic; he was alone on the pavement with no one to deter or even witness what could have been a kidnapping.

_Sod it! Get a grip!_

Weak-kneed, he braced himself against a parked car, only to have anger replace fear in the next second. John cursed himself for not memorizing the face of the man who had spoken to him or noting the car's number plates. Pushing himself upright again, he turned the corner and headed midway down the block where he had parked his car—or thought he had—the night before.

It wasn't where he remembered it. He suspected he had merely misjudged the location but a gnawing fear that someone had stolen it propelled him to pick up speed. He rushed by another long file of vehicles and spotted his Audi at last, remembering with chagrin that he had found the exact spot late last evening.

An unexpected motion near _his_ car caused him to do a double take. Someone was leaning on the Audi's front passenger side. Although his partial view was mostly obstructed by a variety of SUVs, John's fury, not his fear, fueled him forward. Prepared to confront the trespasser, John shouted, "Hey _! You!"_

Turning toward John, holding two takeaway coffees, the familiar figure casually sipped one of them.

"Sherlock!" Relief slowed John's racing heart and his pace.

Sherlock gave him a probing stare over the roof of the car. "You okay?"

"Fine," John lied for the sake of brevity.

Sherlock acquitted John's lie with a single nod. He raised the coffee cups and tilted his head toward the car suggesting John unlock it.

Decidedly baffled to find Sherlock standing by his car, John frowned at his friend. Last night they had agreed to meet but Sherlock had admitted not knowing if John would be required to report to the Coroner's Court for an Inquest or Interpol or MI6 and MI5 or another official unit in London to give his statement at an enquiry. The detective suspected the decision would not be made until morning. Before Sherlock had left last night, John had promised to text him the location and time once he had heard from the authorities.

Except John had not yet sent the text. He had planned to do it once he had boarded the train. It would have afforded Sherlock ample time to meet, especially as Baker Street was centrally located to _everything_ important in London.

"You were _supposed_ to text me, John." Sherlock accused, intending to deflect John's obvious question with a show of impatience.

"What _ARE_ you doing _here_?" John asked the obvious question anyway.

Sherlock blinked and neutralized his fretful scowl. "Thought we'd ride in together."

"Sorry?" So much of that was _wrong_ —including the blasé look on Sherlock's face—that John didn't know where to begin to query the logic.

 _"John!"_ Sherlock's sharp reminder snapped John back into focus.

At the sound of the locks releasing, Sherlock place the cups on the rooftop and both men in synchronized motion swung open their doors. As John inserted his key into the ignition, Sherlock retrieved the hot brews and placed them in the cup holders. John had a moment of not-completely irrational gratitude as the ignition caught before he pulled his vehicle into the street and sighed. Looking over at the man sitting next to him, he was still unsure which of the unusual occurrences he wanted to address first.

"The coffees are hot, I see." John noted aloud, finding that fact puzzling. "Sherlock, your flat is the perfect launch point—Baker Street _is the center_ of the universe—for all your usual business, right? So I have to repeat my question: WHAT are you doing _here_?" John decided to broach the easier topic; he'd hold off on the _close-encounter-with-the-black-car_ conversation until his thoughts had congealed a bit.

"And how the _hell_ did you coordinate the timing," John could hear his voice rising in pitch, "when I didn't know myself what time I'd be leaving this morning? Tell me you were not standing watch over my car _all_ night in anticipation."

A lopsided grin preceded the reply. "What makes you think that?"

John recalled hesitantly as he recreated the scenario. "When you left my flat it was late. I know you usually call for a taxi; a costly choice that never seems to deter you."

"The inconvenience of your move to the suburbs..." Sherlock quipped.

John ignored the interruption and attempted a deduction of his own. "Assuming you went home—and logistically it's possible—it would seem a waste of time, to say nothing of cab fare, to get to Baker Street, spend a bit of time, turn around and return here…to my car…where I found you this morning. How you knew where it was parked and how you timed getting the coffees so they'd be hot when I arrived, I haven't figured out yet."

"It hardly took detective work to locate your Audi," Sherlock scoffed."When I greeted you at your gate last night, you had come from the direction which suggested where you had parked."

"More to the point, finding you alongside my car," John spoke with increasing conviction as he noticed Sherlock's attire, "—by the way, that is the _same_ shirt you were wearing last night, yes? I can only image how this affects your sock index—suggests you hadn't returned to Baker Street at all. How _long_ had you been waiting? "

Listening to John's deduction made Sherlock smile. John had an uncanny sense for gleaning the truth, but usually he got there in a roundabout way because he ignored the obvious. Sherlock stared out the side window at the street scenes gliding past. "You're right. It would have been foolish to squander time and resources. Your incredulity is well-founded. However, I was NOT standing watch over your car _all_ night." Sherlock peered at John as he considered his next words. "What was the last thing I said to you before I left, John?"

"What?" John angled a fleeting glance at is friend. The pale morning light reflecting through the windscreen made Sherlock's irises gleam as clear as crystal. "The _last_ thing?" he asked, sounding foolishly rhetorical to both men.

The previous night, after John had finished his dinner, they had spent several hours talking. Sherlock had fielded a series of questions, rehearsing John on non-incriminating wording for his truthful answers in anticipation of an appearance before the Coroner's Court, MI6, the Home Office, the HPA, and whatever other alphabet agency wanted to know how an ordinary GP had become linked to another polonium poisoning assassination. What John recalled at the end of their session was his having difficulty in staying awake.

"You said…" John licked his lips and kept his eyes glued to the road as his memory returned. "You said… 'Get some rest, John. I'll let myself out.' _Hmmmm!"_ John tightened his grip on the drive wheel and darted his eyes toward his friend before returning them to the light traffic ahead. The answer was now blindingly obvious. "But you didn't let yourself out, did you? What _did_ you do? Kip on the sofa? You could have just said you'd stay. There's a spare bedroom—"

"—Sleep? On _my_ watch?" Sherlock beamed with a satisfied grin. "No. Vigilance, John, along with your laptop, my mobile and persistence have their rewards. Data gathering is invigorating! From the sounds of your restlessness, I suspect you did not successfully follow my recommendation to get _some_ rest; however, I _did_ exactly what I had said I would do. I let myself out."

"I kept dreaming somebody was hovering nearby," John muttered sadly as he pushed away thoughts of Mary. "It was you...in my flat."

"It was fortunate I delayed departure. I overheard the wake-up call. Once you rang off I decided, knowing how routine-oriented you are, it was best to get out of the way of your morning rituals. Calculating how much time you would need, I picked up the coffees at your local Tesco three blocks over. _And,_ so we're clear on this," Sherlock paused, his face assuming a more somber expression, "I have regularly adjusted my sock index for _unexpected_ events."

Looking askance at his friend, John caught the flicker of Sherlock's mischievous grin.

Not to be detoured by Sherlock's attempt at humor, John kept to the original topic. "So…you were _eaves_ d _ropping_ , then?" John guided the Audi into the carpark at the train station. At that hour the station had enough early-bird commuters filling up the prime parking spaces but John had no trouble locating a convenient spot. He shut off the car and swiveled his head to give Sherlock his undivided attention.

"Conducting surveillance…." Sherlock looked mock-sheepish and attempted to open his door.

"No, wait. Not yet." John put a hand on Sherlock's coat sleeve. "In effect, Sherlock, you stood night watch _in my home_?" Not so oddly, John found comfort in this knowledge and pressed for further clarification. " _Because_ …?"

"Because of what you said last night." Sherlock picked up both coffees studying them as if he were reading his answer on the cardboard cups. "We can't be too cautious." The subtlest inflection altered his tone from detached to attached "…with Rosie in the picture." Their eyes met as he handed John his coffee.

John gave a nod, gratified to hear Sherlock's admission and accepted the coffee. He checked his watch. They had ample time to continue a short conversation in the privacy of the car. "Right, so listen. I know I may be a bit overwrought about this because of a possible Russian connection, but when I left this morning there was a car waiting for me…."

Sherlock showed surprise. "There was no car waiting when I left."

"Interesting. And I know _you_ would have noticed."

"And you presumed it was Mycroft." Sherlock nodded as he followed John's thought processes. "Except it wasn't Mycroft's customary clandestine car service giving you a ride."

John could not have known that Sherlock and Mycroft had a discussion on the very subject not more than twenty-eight minutes earlier. The elder Holmes had made it clear in his preemptive phone call with Sherlock that John needed no special protection. "Dr. Watson's involvement in this complicated mess is nothing more than marginal. A GP referring a patient dying of radiation sickness to a hospital is insignificant in the scheme of things. As of now, he is uninteresting to the Russian political power and I suggest you keep it that way by refraining from meddling with an investigation of your own. Your paradigm that identified the gamma ray signal from polonium-210 in the Litvinenko case is still considered viable. Consider it your everlasting contribution and stay clear. I'm not sure I can continue to erase traces of your handiwork if you persist in this matter."

As his brother's interests in international issues and Commonwealth security would keep Mycroft thoroughly updated about the entire goings on with the polonium poisoning business, Sherlock weighed Mycroft's opinion against his own observations and knowledge regarding political assassinations. As much as he hated to admit it, maybe Mycroft's concern for diplomatic niceties and his voluminous understanding of "how these things work" should be heeded this time.

"The international ramifications are too enormous, brother mine, even for you. You will only draw the focus onto yourself and by association onto your friend and his daughter. It could end badly. I'm sure you never want to travel that _road_ again."

 _The road to Samarra._ At one time, Sherlock would have chafed at Mycroft's _aviso_ delivered with irritating emphasis—as if Sherlock were an idiot—but much had happened since then. _I_ am _an idiot!_ Sherlock pondered the warning before accepting that his responsibility to John and Rosie required his compliance. He would not stake their lives on his selfish addiction to prove _what_ and _how_ much better he was at solving the case. He would not fall prey yet again to his overbearing cleverness. If nothing else, this was what he had learned from Mary's death.

Sherlock's thoughts ran their course in split seconds before John formulated his next reply.

"Yeah. It wasn't...," John's voice caught and he swallowed to recover it. "Thinking it was Mycroft, I, I, I just waved the car off and started walking…"

Sherlock read John's agitation in his deeply creased brow, in the white knuckles on the one hand still clutching the wheel and the heightened timbre of John's voice. "Tell me what happened. Focus on every detail, John."

"Nothing much happened. I had expected to see Anthea. But when the window slid down, I did not recognize the man behind the window."

"Tell me what you saw, what you heard—what you observed. What did this man say—precisely? Tell me about the car…"

"Unfortunately it was a quick glimpse and now all I have is an impression of what he looked like." John took a sip of his coffee and closed his eyes. "He was older, grey-haired, wearing eyeglasses. He had a brown complexion, but I don't believe he was tanned. He said they were waiting … 'to escort' me, and he had an accent… I guess I imagined Eastern European, but I only know he rolled his Rs … anyway, he only spoke once and when I ignored him and kept walking, he gave up. The car drove away when I turned the corner. Standard black type. Didn't check the number plates. Sorry!" John opened his eyes with a pained look on his face. "I didn't pay enough attention. I chose flight over fight." John reflected with mild embarrassment. "First time for everything—"

"Fear is wisdom in the face of danger, it is nothing to be ashamed of, John."

"But ignoring threats to me will only put Rosie in danger. I must protect my baby. I promised Mary—"

"Are you sure it was meant as a _threat_ , John? Curious that you were not coerced in any way except you _felt_ intimidated... Alarming you may _not_ have been the speaker's intention which is why he decided to drive off."

Listening to his friend's interpretation of the facts put John somewhat at ease. "That may well be true but I have never enjoyed being greeted by people in black cars—Mycroft hasn't pulled that trick on me in quite a while—especially this early in the morning. Tell me. How did the man know _when_ I would be leaving? Until I got the call, I had no reason to break my routine."

"It is a puzzle, but I am confident we shall get to the bottom of it..." Sherlock stopped himself from saying "I promise." As much as he had wanted to, Sherlock could not promise to keep John and Rosie safe.

Again his thoughts flashed with lightning speed. The heartbreaking events of recent months had shown him the humbling truth of his own fallibility. He had failed in his wedding-day vow to protect the Watsons when he had encouraged the fugitive Mary to come out of hiding and return to London. He had failed them in underestimating the reach and determination of A.G.R.A.'s foes. This miscalculation had led to Mary stepping into a bullet meant for him.

Nor could Sherlock pretend—even to himself—to understand John's profound pain. He could only gauge his friend's scale of loss by the depth of his own grief. He admired John's endurance, strength, and courage. Not wishing to add to John's burden of emotion, Sherlock did his best to mask the anguish he felt, both for losing so dear a friend and kindred spirit as Mary and for what he saw as his culpability in her murder. John had forgiven him but Sherlock had not forgiven himself for his brazen ego by which he swore to keep them safe. Like John, he struggled privately with life after Mary's death, yet he had no wish to reopen John's wounds merely to receive repeated assurances of his friend's forgiveness.

These difficult lessons reminded Sherlock to be realistic about how he would approach this perceived threat in John and Rosie's lives.

"John." Sherlock's eyes sought and held John's as he carefully worded his reply. "Without data it is easy to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. While I can neither dispute nor agree with your concerns, you raise reasons to be on guard ….and," his throat tightened with uncertainty. "I will do _everything_...within my limited powers...to ensure you and Rosie are protected—"

"—If you mean I can rely on the sharpness of your deductive reasoning and your astonishing faculties for discerning the truth within the facts…" John leant back to inspect his serious friend, "I'll take it." Favoring Sherlock with swift smile of gratitude, he opened his car door and headed to the station platform. Sherlock was quick to follow.

Once they had boarded the train, they took precaution and spoke no further. Although Sherlock saw no suspicious characters lurking nearby, John's misgivings kept him silent the entire trip to Charing Cross. In his mind there was no telling who might be watching or listening.

_**88**_


	4. Disclosures

****88****

At precisely 07.24, John and Sherlock entered Thames House in Millbank where an administrative assistant, a man in his mid twenties, awaited them. "Hunter Lumley" was the name on the assistant's lapel badge.

"Dr. Watson." Lumley hailed. "We appreciate your promptness. Everyone is assembled in the conference room and ready for the enquiry."

With practiced RP articulation Lumley recited a flawlessly memorized script. "You will be speaking with members of the multi-agency commission representing the Home Office, the HPA, Greater London's Met Services, MI6-Cyber Terrorism Unit, the Ministry of Defense, and the Communications-Electronics Security Department. They are, of course, interested in the National Security aspects. I'm sure you understand…"

When Lumley turned to Sherlock, the detective caught the nearly imperceptible shift in the aide's confidence.

"Mr. Holmes—"

Sherlock knew what was coming.

"—I was … _instructed_ …," Lumley chose his words guardedly, "to ask you to wait out here." He pointed to an anteroom that looked comfortable enough for nonessential personnel.

This was Mycroft's doing.

 _"_ _Don't get involved, Sherlock,"_ Mycroft had said earlier that morning. It was the same advice Sherlock had heard since he was a child.

Never had Sherlock suspected his bossy brother's warning had hid a deeper, undisclosed truth—until months ago with the revelation of Eurus. Repressed memories of their criminally insane sister had kept Sherlock ignorant of her dangerously obsessive and lethal jealousies regarding _her_ favorite brother's friends. While losing his childhood best friend, Victor, could have contributed on a subconscious level to his disinterest in forming other friendships, the adult Sherlock would assert that he had actually not _cared_ about becoming involved before he met John Watson. But Mycroft had known of the danger and it had motivated the eldest brother to be the guardian of the biggest family secret with three key words: _don't get involved_.

This time, Mycroft clarified his statement. " _Well, don't_ appear _to get involved with this investigation, for your friend's sake. Let's keep the Kremlin uninterested, shall we?"_

Being barred from the proceedings was hardly surprising for a person extrinsic to the investigation. It was essentially a secret proceeding as the case was still highly classified. Whether Kumar's death had extenuating circumstances that could embarrass the Crown had not yet been determined. Even so, secret or not, doors that would regularly open for the Holmes name were not opening this time.

For John's sake, Sherlock would show restraint, although being cut off from the instant feed of data was excruciating—especially when it came to John. Getting John to talk about the enquiry afterwards was unlikely once they re-commissioned him and compelled him to silence or forced him to sign an Official Secrets Act. The steadfast soldier would undoubtedly obey and refuse to talk to _anyone_ no matter how upset the case made him.

If that significant resource were denied Sherlock, it did not mean that the younger Holmes could not procure whatever information he needed directly from the horse's mouth. Mycroft had at least agreed to share information as long as Sherlock didn't meddle in any polonium poisoning cases—or Russian assassination cases—present or future. What happened in the past stayed in the past. Sherlock had in turn agreed to this arrangement _only if_ Mycroft would follow Sherlock's input _to the letter_ should aspects of John's investigation require such intervention. Mycroft accepted the offered carrot.

Responding to Lumley's request mere seconds after it was made, Sherlock acquiesced with a cocked brow and a slight bow, in that order.

As the detective backed away from John's side, Lumley spun on his heel and motioned John to follow him into the meeting. Casting a glance over his shoulder at Sherlock, John caught his friend's eye and nodded _I'm okay_. Sherlock flashed a grin that signaled _I know_.

000

Lumley led John to a pair of heavy, wood-paneled doors, but parted ways once John went inside. As Lumley had said the officials were already seated. A woman, garbed in a grey business suit and identified as the court clerk, ushered him into the modest conference room that was dimly lit apart from where he was instructed to sit. His was the only seat illuminated by an overhead light on the concave side of a widely arced conference table. It was a strategic placement. It placed John in full view of all nine multi-agency investigators, yet to address any one of them, John would have to swivel his head side to side.

Each of the officials seated at the table gave an introduction and affiliation. The majority were from various law enforcement units working the case within the Greater London's Metropolitan Police Service. While John did not recognize the individuals by name, there was a distinct probability they knew the Holmes-Watson consulting service by reputation at least. John hoped that was a good thing. Two names _were_ familiar: Dr. Sandra Robson, whom John had contacted first at the HPA headquarters to inform them about Kumar, and Chief of Nuclear Medicine at UCLH Dr. Samuel Fitch, the HPA official who had rung John early that morning. Both nodded in polite greeting.

A man introducing himself as Coroner Ian Williams sat opposite, toward John's left, and sitting directly across from John was Captain Geoffrey Collins from the MI6 Cyber-Terrorism Division. The court clerk in grey, becoming invisible into the shadows, remained poised over the stenotype at a small, separate table behind John to take down the testimony. Microphones were also placed on the table to record the proceedings.

"We are speaking with Dr. John Watson," the Coroner stated for the record while the court clerk's fingers clicked across the keys. "I would like to thank you for joining us, Dr. Watson. You are here to provide information regarding Jayadeep Kumar whom you examined as a patient in your surgery several hours before he died. We seek your feedback on matters that will be put forth during this discussion. Given the unusual circumstances, the Home Office has invoked National Security regarding aspects of this investigation. Therefore, we are enlisting your service, not just as a civilian, but as a man who has sworn his allegiance to his country as a soldier. Before we can proceed now, we require your signature on several documents."

The clerk handed John the official forms to sign. John wondered what might happen if he refused. Rather than start an avalanche of trouble for being uncooperative, he signed without protest realizing the protection of secrecy went both ways.

"This enquiry is part of a police investigation. Earlier, a preliminary Inquest to answer the questions _who_ , _how, when_ , and _where_ the victim came by his death was held and successfully ascertained the following." The Coroner referred to his notes before speaking at length and recounting medical details about organ and respiratory failure and establishing the facts of the cause, time, and place of the patient's death at the UCLH.

"The autopsy revealed extremely high concentrations of polonium-210," Williams summarized, "at lethal doses in the samples taken from several organs and post-mortem tissue analyses showed the extent of autolysis caused by the retention of the poison." He shuffled through some pages in a folder and pulled one out to present to the others. "The particulars required by the Births and Deaths Registration Act 1953 have been provided; copies will be made available for your records. This concludes my report."

Rising from his chair, Williams surveyed his colleagues. "My apologies. Pressing business requires me elsewhere at this time. However, as this is a fact-finding endeavor regarding the polonium contamination," he gestured toward the man at his left, "Captain Collins will proceed from here."

"Thank you, Dr. Williams." Collins stood politely and waited until the doors closed behind the Coroner before sitting down to resume the enquiry. "As Coroner Williams mentioned, the Inquest has supplied the answers to _how, where_ , and _when_ Jayadeep Kumar died…. However, it has not really answered _who_ the patient was." Collins rested his elbows on the table and clasped his hands. "This, Dr. Watson, is where we hope you will provide some answers. It has been well established that you were the last person to speak with him before he lost consciousness. By the time the paramedics arrived to bring him to UCLH, he was incoherent."

"I'm happy to cooperate with this investigation," John maintained poise and posture, aware his body language was under observation. "While it's true we spoke, I had limited time with my patient during the medical examination. Within that time his symptoms dominated the conversation. However, once I suspected polonium-210, I too wondered why and how the patient had been exposed."

Everyone leant forward with John's last statement.

"Aside from the results of the post mortem," John continued, "which Dr. Williams had just disclosed, I can only share _my_ impressions, an understanding I acquired from things Mr. Kumar told me. He seemed both angry and aware of what had happened to him, but he was cautious about saying anything incriminating out loud. Later I realized he spoke as if he thought we were under some kind of audio surveillance. I think this had something to do with his occupation. Your background check has likely given you more information about the IT company that employed him, but he sounded upset about something that had occurred with his work—his pen test not going well, as I remember. When he was summoned for an official meeting at a Japanese restaurant in Soho—somewhere near Carnaby Street—he had been expecting an…. um …'reprimand'…that was the word he used. He said they ended up celebrating the successful end of an assignment instead."

Having reviewed over and over Kumar's words since their conversation the day before, John spoke without hesitation. "Mr. Kumar told me that it was odd to see his colleagues and managers. He said he had always worked remotely and had never met them face to face before. Still, he went along with the celebration although he felt suspicious. When I inquired if he drank tea at the restaurant, he answered 'lots'."

Nearing the end of his remarks, John began to feel more relaxed. The enquiry was going well. "As you all know, tea covers the bitter flavor of the polonium. This is all I gathered from the little bits of conversation. I've already said this is mostly speculative. Oh, yes. He mentioned the name of one colleague. Mitchell. I don't know if it's a first or last name."

"Thank you. That is indeed helpful, Dr. Watson." Collins glanced toward his colleagues. They were all nodding in agreement. Some murmured with their neighbors. Collins waited until they settled before he continued. "We'll pursue an investigation of the Japanese restaurant straight away and locating the person named Mitchell will also be a priority."

"One other thing," John knew what he was about to say would reset the parameters of their investigation. "Mr. Kumar was unable to tell me if any of his colleagues at the restaurant had also taken ill…" He left the implication hanging. It was a question he had raised for himself many times in the last twenty-two hours. What if there were more victims?

Although the others on the panel showed appropriate concern, Collins wore an expression that was downright grim. "Where there is one, might there be others? Even if they were not as intended targets there is a possibility of collateral damage. This is why we must act quickly. To this end, Dr. Watson, we expect your full disclosure to the questions I am about to ask. Please do not feel you must shield anyone by withholding what you know. You are a military man. You understand the necessity of a full report."

All eyes were trained on John.

John swallowed, disquieted by the sudden shift in the room. "I _have_ told you what I know."

"Are you aware Kumar had been carrying his laptop in the shoulder bag he wore to your clinic?"

 _Shoulder bag?_ The question jogged John's memory of Kumar slipping if off—it had appeared heavy for the patient—and placing it on the floor when he sat in the chair. The recollection was fleeting, but John was concerned his face revealed his thoughts. His hesitancy had not gone unnoticed. The captain was staring at him. John shook his head and spoke up for the record. "No."

"We retrieved the shoulder bag from your surgery. Upon examination of the laptop," Collins' words remained cordial but his eyes fixed on John like a vise, "we discovered that the contents of his computer had been wiped clean. _Odd._ Now _who_ does that? Who carries a useless, formatted laptop with them on a doctor's visit? We wondered if you might _speculate_ on that, Doctor."

Collins' emphasis on 'speculate' was strong with innuendo. What else would one expect from a Cyber-Terrorism Unit official trained at gathering information? In John's case he was angling to create suspicion where none existed.

 _"… the only astute doctor to recognize the symptoms on exam—"_ Sherlock had said the previous night. "…a _little too astute, according to the dullards at MI6…"_

Had John possessed a worried conscience or lacked familiarity with the procedure, he might have felt intimidated by Collins. Rather, having been repeatedly subjected to far worse in the way of Holmesian stares, John met and held Collins' gaze without flinching. "I was unaware he had his laptop in the bag. I don't rummage through my patients' belongings."

"So you were not familiar with any plan of his to give you his laptop for safekeeping, given his dire condition?"

John was completely taken aback by this suggestion and his brows knitted in confusion. "Why would he want me to have his laptop? Especially as you say, one that was wiped clean…?"

"That is what we wondered, too. However, now that we have gained possession of it, our forensic teams have recovered much of the deleted or wiped files. In fact, Kumar's efforts to hide his hard drive content and history seemed quite amateurish and ineffective for an IT specialist of his expertise." Collins paused. Although his lips were pressed together in a thin line, a slight smile formed at the corners. "It makes us think that Mr. Kumar had not attempted to delete his files but some _amateur_ had done it, likely before he had been transported to UCLH." Collins eyes narrowed as he assessed John with a tighter focus.

"If you're implying _me_ ," John's expression hardened, "I told you. I was not aware he had his laptop. I did not touch his shoulder bag." John decided not to profess his ignorance at formatting a hard drive; it would only prove he _was_ their amateur.

"Are you _familiar_ with Kumar's work?"

"No. How could I be? "John pursed his lips, puzzled over Collin's line of questioning. "Until he walked into my examination room, I had never seen him before."

"Perhaps you knew him by an alias? A handle?"

"Handle…?" John frowned. He knew the term. Mentally enumerating his Internet contacts, John reviewed the email addresses he knew. His contacts predominantly used variants of their real names. Posts on his blog were often individuals who used handles. Perhaps if Collins named a specific handle, John might recognize it.

"A handle…. It's the name used to conceal one's _real_ identity…" Collins rocked back in his seat and folded his arms. "There were other surgeries closer to his home. Why did Kumar go to your surgery, d'you think? Do you feel he sought you out?"

"I have no idea. Mr. Kumar never indicated that he had specifically requested to see me. I assumed that when he arrived at the clinic, he was put on rotation." John shifted uncomfortably as new implications stirred his curiosity. Why had Kumar selected his surgery? As an afterthought he added. "I was told by my intake nurse that he _had_ asked about the doctors on staff that day."

"Yes. We have the statement of Nurse Alice Wilks. She said he _specifically_ requested you."

Collins waited while members of the enquiry murmured softly among themselves.

"This is the first I'm hearing of it." John shrugged, his unease growing with this new information.

"Well, if you're not curious why he came to your surgery, I certainly am." Collins picked up a dossier on the table. "You have had a a checkered history, Dr. Watson, since becoming a civilian. You started off quite respectable in the service; your prominence as a skilled surgeon preceded you, your distinguished military career brought you notable acclaim. Such a shame that it all came to ruin when you were wounded and invalided out with a diagnosis of PTSD….How the mighty _do_ fall." Collins muttered the last phrase under his breath for John's benefit alone.

Decidedly unnerved by his personal life coming under scrutiny, John held his temper and his tongue.

Collins pushed deeper. "You've had trouble with the law. Over five years ago you had to appear in Magistrate's Court. You were given an ASBO for an infraction—for inflammatory graffiti."

"Check the record again," John stated flatly. "The ASBO was subsequently dismissed. I had been wrongly accused." He said no more, remembering Sherlock's words from the previous night. _"_ _You had once told me John to_ _'just keep it simple and brief.' I recall not heeding you at the time; You also had warned me about being a smart-arse. Again, I paid you no mind. However, I exhort you to follow your own wisdom. Answer only the questions, don't elaborate."_

"You assaulted a Chief Superintendent of Police and became a fugitive..."

"Summarily dismissed. No charges of wrongdoing were filed."

"You have been frequently under investigation by the Met…"

"—not _under_ investigation!" John straightened in his chair, his body reacting with the seated version of battle readiness to Collins' attempt to bait him, to unnerve him by distorting the truth. "Your facts are again incorrect. I've been working as a consultant on cases _for_ the Met with my partner, Sherlock Holmes—"

"—your partner. A man you brutally attacked several months ago and put in hospital! You claimed he killed your wife."

John's stomach dropped; his mouth struggled to repeat the phrase, "No charges of wrongdoing were filed..." His voice faded with remorse. John lowered his eyes, concealing the painful memories in evidence there.

Sherlock had once said, _"People don't like telling you things, but they love to contradict you."_ Collins was wielding his own harsher brand of the technique, antagonizing John with skewered truths to provoke a reaction that might reveal whatever he was hiding, except John was not hiding anything related to this case.

Coming to grips with the emotional turmoil churned by Collins' words, John released his grip on the chair's arms and lifted his eyes once more, his stern gaze leveled on Collins. "Tell me how _any_ of this is relevant, Captain—"

"—it's relevant IF your maladjustment to civilian life caused disillusionment, violent outbursts, and a harboring resentment toward Queen and country. Terrorists recruit all sorts, especially those individuals suffering from mental health problems, such _as_ depression, anxiety, PTSD. Someone like that is more likely to be receptive to the ideas of radicalization.…"

 _What the bloody hell?_ _Is this an enquiry or the Inquisition?_ John sat stunned by the accusation. "Come again?"

"Were you and Kumar in collaboration working for Russian Cyber terrorists?"

Silence overtook the room as everyone at the table was surprised by Collins' question. They held their collective breaths, waiting for John's answer.

 _So that's why Collins is up my arse!_ Bristling, John fired back. " _Absolutely_ NOT!" Had he _NOT_ been sitting before a panel of serious-faced officials he would have laughed hard and long at the absurdity. Instead, he controlled his roiling indignation and replied in a firm voice. "You have used the word IF, Captain. Might I remind you the word IF signifies something _supposed_ and _not_ proven? Certainly your statement is the farthest from the truth!"

"Truth is what we seek in this matter."

"Then don't fog it up with conjecture," John countered. "Why are you questioning my involvement in Kumar's case other than as the doctor who diagnosed him?"

Collins raised a palm to halt conversation and leant back. "You are not here to ask questions, Doctor." His voice remained civil although he scrutinized John with an intensity that was hardly genial. "But I _can_ answer that question by taking a closer look at _other_ activities you are involved in. There is no denying you have returned to medical practice, I grant you that. However, you are also a world-famous blogger, someone who disseminates information to global audiences. The _Blog of Dr. John H. Watson_ shows an impressive number of hits. Perhaps your Internet presence attracts followers of a different kind … or is a cover to connect with the dark web and unethical hackers like _your_ patient." He glanced at his colleagues before repeating the question. "So is it coincidence that the patient Jayadeep Kumar came to _your_ surgery yesterday?"

"Hackers?" John pulled back doing his best to suppress a sneer of disapproval. "How absurd! I keep a blog of Sherlock's cases. That's the whole extent of my Internet capabilities." At last understanding Collins' atypical hostility, John rebutted with a concise summary of the truth. "To my knowledge, Mr. Kumar's visit was for medical reasons only. That he carried a laptop had no bearing on why I saw him. Hacker or not, he was a very sick man who needed immediate treatment." Even as he stated the facts as he knew them, John could not successfully quash sudden and rapid notions about the dying man.

 _Why my surgery? Had Kumar selected "Dr. John Watson" because of my association with Sherlock Holmes?_ John recalled Kumar remarking about losing his logon access. In essence, Kumar had been isolated and needed connectivity. It was not impossible for Kumar to be a member of the expert, elite programmers within Sherlock's network of deep and dark web hackers. How would John know? They don't wear buttons _I hack for Sherlock Holmes_ to identify themselves. Could that be it? The dying man was using John merely as a conduit to reach Sherlock and physically bring his laptop and share what it contained with his fellow hackers? _Talk about speculation!_

Despite these thoughts running in the background, John maintained his composure. "Captain, we all know that the nature of this enquiry is to ascertain the facts not create speculation. I don't know WHY Kumar asked for me and he gave me no reasons. All I know is that when he came into my office he was quite ill, beyond hope, and I was seeking the means to ease his discomfort in the last few hours of his life."

"Then what made you immediately suspect polonium-210 and nothing else? Was there some prior knowledge you had about the patient that would enable you to make this diagnosis?"

"It was _not_ an immediate diagnosis. I deduced it from the evidence presented to me." Sherlock's influence echoed in his statement as John detailed the events from the previous day, including that he rang Dr. Sandra Robson with whom he had shared his suspicions.

Slowly panning his audience to look each of them in the eyes, John's truth gave his words power. "Under battle conditions, you often have milliseconds for medical triage—categorizing symptoms, assessing injuries—to ensure proper treatment is being provided expeditiously. That skill doesn't dissipate simply because a doctor is working in civilian conditions. Mr. Kumar clearly was at end-stage of what appeared to be a radiation sickness of some kind and the rapid onset, based upon his description of timeline and events, caused me to consider that it was the same poison that killed Alexander Litvinenko. My diagnosis was informed by years of studying the medical literature in the wake of Litvinenko's assassination. And after almost a decade of headlines about the most extensive investigation in criminal history on British soil, followed by months of coverage last year with the public enquiry—was it just two months ago that the British Judge concluded who poisoned Litvinenko in a 338-page report?—well, it was hardly a stretch to see the similarity in my patient."

The room went silent again. Some of the officials were making notes, or shuffling pages, a few met John's gaze. Dr. Sandra Robson actual gave him a nod of approval and a slight smile.

Undaunted, John waited patiently for the next series of questions, even though he could not imagine what they might be. Several of the law enforcement officials rose and motioned the Cyber-Terrorism Unit captain to join them at a discrete distance. John watched their gestures and body language closely, detecting some tension and wishing he had a tenth of Sherlock's gift for discerning what it all might mean. Doctors Robson and Fitch remained seated, conferring softly with each other, obviously not involved in the police aspects of the discussion. At last, the group broke apart, and Collins returned to his chair. Stiffly he took his seat. He did not look at John.

The room was deathly quiet. Only the shuffling of papers as Collins sorted the pages in front of him disturbed the atmosphere of anticipation. At last he cleared his throat, raised his eyes, and announced matter-of-factly. "Dr. Watson, the investigative team has agreed that there are no further questions for you."

A few heads nodded in agreement, several murmured in quiet conversation between themselves, but none of the officials addressed John directly. Whatever they had discussed with the captain moments before had reined in the interrogation, however, Collins was still presiding over the enquiry. He stood, made minimal eye contact with the man he had been haranguing for the past twenty minutes, and stated, "You are not being accused of any wrongdoing or culpability. Thank you for your assistance in this matter. You're free to go," and gestured toward the door.

 _Dismissed!_ John heard the command in his head even though it had not been spoken. The well-trained reflexes of a soldier brought him to his feet with his chin up, chest out, shoulders back, stomach in. He let out a soft breath in relief. _Was it finally over?_ Despite the barrage of questions that both attempted to tarnish his reputation and put him through an emotional wringer, he had endured this battle virtually unscathed; or at least he hoped there would be no reprisals.

Apparently he had impressed Dr. Robson. She looked a her colleagues irritably and in an overt show of respect for John stood at her chair. "You're an excellent diagnostician, Dr. Watson." It was not clear if she had nudged Dr. Fitch to support her, but he stood as well and added. "I concur with Dr. Robson. You have keen observational skills, certainly an admirable trait in a doctor. We are much obliged."

John offered them an appreciative smile and a single nod of acknowledgement before he spun on his heel and eagerly marched toward the door. On his way out, he overheard Robson initiate another discussion with her colleagues.

"Gentlemen, if there is a distinct possibility that Dr. Watson is right about more victims, we must review our response plan—"

"—Not yet, Dr. Robson. There's _another_ testimony to hear," Collins interrupted. "Dr. Fitch, our witness should be here, yes?"

"I rang him this morning, even before Dr. Watson. He was eager to come." Dr. Fitch sounded a bit perplexed. "I expected him by now."

"Oh yes, right!" Robson replied. "We're waiting for Chief Cardiologist at the Royal Brompton, Dr. Samarth K—"

The door closed behind John, cutting off the end of Robson's remark. John stood still for a moment and heaved a relieved sigh.

_That was it?_

They grilled him; they chewed him up and spit him out. They did not shake his hand. Sherlock was wrong about the last part. At least, they did not ask him to pee in a cup. And John still did not have any clear-cut answers. Assuming from the enquiry questions that Kumar _was_ a hacker with Russian connections, it would certainly explain why he had become a victim of an assassination. Regrettably, John was not at liberty to share even that much with Sherlock. He was bound to secrecy.

John approached the room where Sherlock had been asked to wait and detected the muffled speech of a private exchange; one voice he recognized as Sherlock's, the other was unfamiliar.

In the doorway of the anteroom John halted. Sherlock and another man whose back was toward the door were seated tête-à-tête. The stranger was speaking and Sherlock's intense eyes, absorbing every detail, were fixed on his acquaintance. By the pace and timbre of Sherlock's response, they were discussing content of a decidedly confidential nature. John hesitated, unsure if his presence would disturb Sherlock's information-gathering process.

That hesitation drew Sherlock's attention to John; the detective rose from the worn grey sofa and motioned John to join them. "Here he is now—Dr. John Watson." Sherlock said with a polished grin and a satisfied glint in his eyes.

His gray-haired companion stood and turned, giving John a slight bow in greeting. The slender man wore a dark suit and spectacles. Within his somber expression, white teeth flashed in contrast to his brown complexion and he gave a sad smile. "Dr. Watson…"

 _That voice!_ It was a match to the voice of the man in the black car. John's eyes darted toward his friend. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock tilted his head toward the older man. "You _have_ met before. Earlier this morning, in fact. He offered to 'escort' you to the enquiry. This is Dr. Samarth Kumar, the Royal Brompton's Chief of Cardiology and Jay Kumar's father. He also has been asked to make a statement. We've had an interesting chat while waiting for you."

****88****


	5. Listen Up Part !

***888***

***888***

**PART 1**

"What part of my warning—to _not_ get involved—did you not understand?" Mycroft remarked drily. He leant back in his leather chair beneath Pietro Annigoni's _Portrait of_ _Queen Elizabeth II_ and gave Sherlock an imperious frown.

"I'm _not_ involved," Sherlock countered. Standing with arms akimbo in front of Mycroft's desk, he glared down at his brother. "If I were, I'd be searching for the men who poisoned Kumar. I am merely seeking to resolve the connection Kumar had with the FSB to explain such an attack. This is for our ears only. That's why we're here."

"Concrete walls… a _bunker_ ," John stood beside Sherlock, muttering in quiet awe of Mycroft's underground headquarters. Shafts of light from the ceiling cast white rectangles on the sponge-painted grey walls. The door was vault-like on heavy hinges. Enormous mirrors on the walls flanked the large desk behind which Mycroft sat with stately authority in his dapper, charcoal pinstripe three-piece. _Was this where he lorded over his minions?_

Sherlock looked askance at John. During their trip over from Thames House, John had been tightlipped and uptight about the enquiry. Although, once they entered the subterranean storey of the Diogenes Club, his demeanor had changed. Apparently, the revelation of Mycroft's private office had distracted John from his sour mood.

"Then what is so urgent that it required I sent round a car?" Mycroft dripped with insouciance.

"You presumably have intelligence on this case, but _so_ do I. May I remind you, Mycroft, that weakness in one limb is often compensated by exceptional strength in the others? What I know can strengthen your weak _intelligence,_ " Sherlock emphasized the last word with a smirk.

"Wait, Sherlock," John tore his gaze away from the intriguing interior and hesitated. His eyes darted between the two brothers. "I've signed the Official Secrets Act. I can't engage in any conversation pertaining to this incident."

"Don't be an idiot, John!" Sherlock snapped, losing patience with each delay. "You've got the British Government sitting right here. Quick, Mycroft! Absolve him."

" _Absolve_ him?" Mycroft threw Sherlock a supercilious look. "I'm many things, Sherlock, but no one would mistake me for a priest!"

"You know what I mean," Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "Release him from his vow of secrecy. Grant him my level of security status, or better yet, declare this a classified meeting."

"Can you do that?" John pulled a surprised face at the elder Holmes behind the desk. "Release me?"

"Of course he can! Who do you think made you sign it in the first place?" Sherlock tilted his head toward Mycroft. " _He's_ the one who invoked the National Security—for _your_ sake—to keep your name out of it."

"National Security was invoked for the sake of the _country_ ," Mycroft huffed. "However, it has the added virtue of protecting the identities of the persons involved."

"Anyway, John, _we_ will be doing all the talking," Sherlock rounded the side of the desk and gestured John toward the one chair—front and center—directly across from Mycroft. "The oath you took doesn't prohibit you from listening to what I have uncovered, thus far."

Feeling fatigued from the enquiry, John sat down and folded his arms. If all he had to do was listen, he could stay out of the crossfire in the Holmes battle of wits.

"Jayadeep Kumar was an interesting man." Sherlock began pacing alongside the desk, walking the short path between John and Mycroft. "During his 'day' job, he was a White Hat, involved in installing sensors on compromised machines—with their owners' permission. That's what Kumar meant when he had told you yesterday, John, that he 'worked in 'IT.' As an ethical hacker, he observed threatening traffic, collected intelligence, and channeled that information to cyber-security companies capable of preempting the attacks. However, Kumar also became involved in a covert, counter cyber-security operation, seeking to penetrate and expose the agenda of trolls and disruptive hacktivists by pretending to be one of them, a Black Hat. I suspect this is where he got into trouble." As Sherlock related the facts, a fierce energy raised the pitch of his voice and brought a sparkling gleam of excitement to his eyes.

"How do you know all this?" John furrowed his forehead. "Is that what you and his father were discussing?"

"No." Shaking off John's interruption with a gentle toss of his head, he answered distractedly, continuing to pace, "His father was unaware of Kumar's activities. It seems they've been out of touch for nearly a year."

"If his father didn't know," John twisted in his chair and eyed his friend, sensing he may not like the answer he was seeking, " _how_ and _when_ did you get this information? You didn't know any of this during our conversation last night."

"True. Except, to begin at the beginning—" Sherlock clapped his hands and smiled broadly, "while on my so-called 'night watch,' I hopped on your laptop and did a little 'investigating.' And thanks to my special network of reliable hackers, I have been able to ascertain…. why are you looking at me like that?" Sherlock abruptly asked, his enthusiasm deflated by the expression on John's face. Not waiting for an answer, he intercepted what he expected would be John's complaint. "I used proxies to obfuscate your IP address, John, as I _always_ do. I've learned from the best—"

"— _My_ laptop! _Bollocks_ , Sherlock!" John leapt to his feet and faced Sherlock. "What if the Cyber Terrorism Unit decides to confiscate my personal property? Now you've seen to its being used in questionable activity—"

"—I've used your laptop before. Quite often as a matter of fact," Sherlock contended, meeting the smolder in John's eyes with his own laser stare. He preferred avoiding a petty dispute as there were far more important things to discuss, yet his frustration over John's excessive worries was mounting. "Last night's traffic is of no consequence, John!" Sherlock continued with some pique, "especially as there's already a _long_ history of so-called 'questionable activity' on your computer!"

John opened his mouth to voice his outrage, but Mycroft interrupted him.

" _Doctor Watson_!" Mycroft thundered and rolled his eyes impatiently. "You are _not_ under any suspicion. And the truth be told, you are a very small fish in an ocean of global espionage. As long as you don't inflate your importance in this matter, no one will notice you."

"As much as I _deplore_ agreeing with my brother," Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair and clutched the sides of his head, exasperated by being pulled off the main topic, " _LISTEN_ to Mycroft! Besides, my fingerprints are all over your keyboard. The authorities would be hard put to accuse you of anything."

"Big fish eat little fish," John groused softly. With both Holmes siding against him, he retreated to the far chair near the entrance of the underground room and sat with his arms and legs crossed. He was dissatisfied with himself for exposing his vulnerability by overreacting and steamed that the two men could roust him so thoroughly. He just could not help feeling the personal stakes were way too high and his responsibilities to Rosie were endangered by all this.

"What did you learn, Sherlock _?"_ Mycroft's mannerly voice had returned.

Head down, gaze plowing the floor, Sherlock resumed pacing, picking up speed as he spoke. "It seems Kumar went deeper than expected; 'easy to do,' my sources say, 'when you enter the Deep Web.' If I had access to Kumar's laptop it would have made it far easier to map his pathways. I was able, however, to replicate a pattern of traffic that fits Kumar's hacking methods. My hacker network helped me identify and follow these routes; we were led—like Kumar was —to _state actors_ , meaning hackers or groups of hackers contracted by governments. While they could be working for any world power—the U.S., Russia, China, Syria, and even North Korea—these hackers are backed by a nation-state with essentially unlimited resources, both legal and financial, making them truly formidable. We did not engage them last night, but Kumar likely had and found himself over his head, despite his expertise."

Sherlock halted in mid-stride and pivoted toward his brother. "How does this compare with what your Cyber Terrorism Unit found, Mycroft?"

"It ties in adequately," Mycroft leant back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Our forensics teams examined his laptop and retrieved the contents. His computer contained encrypted files of Russian origin. The Cyber Terrorism Unit has only begun to sort out what those packets of information are or what their intended purpose is. We fear it may take months to decipher."

"So, what you're really saying is we know nothing," John grumbled sullenly from the back of the room.

"Not exactly," Mycroft replied to John's aside, overlooking the doctor's sulk. "We do know from past experience that the Russians are notorious for their hack-and-leak campaigns regarding global organizations and financial powerhouses. We have seen this before. They often attempt to influence tight races between political candidates. There is a Presidential election in the States this year, and the campaigning has been particularly… vicious. Next year, several European countries have important elections. The balance of power can be tipped by the strategic use of phishing, disinformation, gossip, innuendo, smear tactics, leaking information, and spreading fake news. We also know the Kremlin's interference is not a new strategy. Meddling with falsified documents and planting disinformation began with Lenin. However in this digital age, it is far more insidious and global, especially when trolls are paid handsomely to generate counterfeit data."

"Paid by whom?" Curiosity trumped John's resentment of minutes before. It pulled him to his feet and brought him to Sherlock's side in anticipation of Mycroft's answer.

"Unfortunately, the intricate laundering and moving of currency through international banks obscure the trail," Mycroft answered with a heavy sigh. "We don't know."

"Like many hackers, Kumar worked through anonymous internet contacts," Sherlock acknowledged John with a sideward glance. "And we are unhelpfully straying into speculation at this point, although the little evidence we do have points us in this direction. The stakes—to whomever this assassination seemed warranted—were doubtless enormous."

"It's extreme, to say the least," John agreed, catching the flash of frustration in Sherlock's eyes, "considering the suffering Jay Kumar endured in his last week of life. Why use radiation poisoning? It's agonizing and slow. If they wanted Kumar dead, there were simpler ways to do it. A bullet, a beating, or strangulation are equally effective methods, and as mad as it sounds, maybe a touch more humane."

"I would not ascribe humane or subtle to the FSB," Sherlock shook his head and thrust his hands in his pockets. "No. This was a message, John."

"So, that was the whole point, then," John asserted. "Using something so lethal and especially linked to Russian espionage is akin to planting a flag of victory on the battlefield."

" _Precisely_ , John!" Sherlock cheered with a jubilant pump of his fist, "Now you see the connection. Polonium-210 is _produced_ in Russian nuclear reactors! It is _their signature poison_ , a blatant statement, one as insidious as Litvenenko's murder. This incident with Kumar is a warning to all trolls and Black Hats working as Russian hackers. If the FSB suspects any of their hackers of going rogue or of switching sides, there will be terrible consequences!"

Curtailing his outburst, Sherlock resumed in a normal voice, "I also learnt that this warning has caused outraged reactions in the Dark Net community; the chatter last night was ferocious. I listened to their rants for hours, trying to filter fact from fiction."

"And if there are others affected," Mycroft added softly leaning both elbows on the desk and clasping his hands, "we have the knowledge and experience to follow the trail of radioactivity to find them, including this man named Mitchell, too. It's inevitable now. They cannot hide polonium for long."

"So, Sherlock, was Kumar friend or foe?"

John's question gave Sherlock pause. Briefly Sherlock studied the portrait above Mycroft as if the young Queen had the answers. At last, he scratched his head and replied, "I do not know, John. Having no preconceptions is an asset. You know how I work; I follow where the _facts_ lead me. It's key to every investigation, but in this particular case, the facts are not so clear cut. If I believe my sources _,_ Kumar was indeed an ethical hacker, a 'good guy,' sidelining as a cyber-activist and working with the 'bad guys' for the past year, until something, a breach in security, a trap laid for him and his fellow hackers, triggered the attention back on him. From the information currently to hand, he was a hacker who got hacked. I also believe he did not know who he had been working for until the end, when it was too late."

"That explains the defiance and outrage I saw while examining him," John mulled. "As sick as he was, he got himself out and made his presence known. That takes remarkable determination and courage."

Sherlock gave his friend an approving half smile. It was just like John Watson to ascribe strength and nobility to others.

"So why did he come to me?" John shifted from foot to foot uneasily. "He asked for me, specifically, I was told."

"This I _do_ know!" Sherlock brightened and faced John with a wide grin. "While you were making your statements in the enquiry, my mobile—not your laptop—was the device that provided the answers," Sherlock clarified. "There are two reasons actually for why he sought you out. Several months back you blogged about the dangers of several rare poisons. You remember, yes? It was right after I told you and Lestrade about the methodologies and symptoms—."

"—you told just me in the taxi, remember? Not Greg. He was too busy to listen."

"Right! I remembered that blog too," Sherlock rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Only today I discovered that you had taken that blog post down, so I had to enter through a backdoor to gain access to your blog account and your traffic stats."

"I had second thoughts about it. I didn't want to give my readers ideas," John quipped and looked at his feet.

"Well, that blog included facts about polonium poisoning and explained its effects. I used certificate mapping in the active directory of your blog to identify Kumar as one of your loyal and frequent followers—his handle was SLEUTH, sound familiar? It should. He had been one of numerous readers who had logged on when it was first posted. He customarily left comments on your case blogs, as well, because SLEUTH was a fan of Sherlock Holmes—this according to another Blog fan who goes by the name MID HELL. Don't forget, John. Someone who hacks for a living would have no trouble locating our whereabouts, work and residences, too. I don't believe I am mistaken to suspect that he had learnt all about us both long before he had been poisoned. When he realized the direness of his situation, he thought you would be the doctor best qualified to identify his symptoms. Through you, he could reach out to others—"

"So he brought me a formatted computer," John grumbled, "and didn't bother to explain why."

"During the enquiry, Sherlock," Mycroft replied to the questioning look on his brother's face, "Captain Collins implied that an amateur at the surgery had wiped the laptop clean."

"Meaning me," John added with a mirthless laugh.

Sherlock looked puzzled, "What would you know about formatting a computer?"

"Exactly!" John retorted, "Collins implied that was reason to suspect me."

Sherlock frowned but returned to topic. "The point is, John, you were uniquely qualified to diagnose Kumar. He was counting on it. Otherwise, if he had remained in his flat, his death would have been 'unexplained' for quite a while or attributed to something else, entirely. It may never have been linked to the murders of Russian dissidents. He also _counted_ on you contacting the proper authorities once you recognized his condition, do you see?"

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back as he considered the possibilities. "As for wiping the hard drive clean, it was likely an 'amateurish' job done on purpose as a ruse. You said it took courage for Kumar to leave his flat. So, it was a gamble. What if he hadn't made it alive to your surgery? His laptop could have been stolen as he lay dying on the pavement. That would have left it and its sensitive contents in the hands of just anybody, something Kumar—knowing what it contained—would never have done. Hiding the files it contained would ensure only cyber-experts would be able to recover them and getting it to you, even at the cost of his life, was the surest way to get it into hands he trusted, John. His scheme worked."

"I have to agree with Sherlock's logical conjectures," Mycroft added. "It's all we have to go on for now. Kumar presumably wanted the contents of his computer shared. This information will help us expose the strategies the cyber-terrorists and trolls are currently using to alter documents and plant disinformation alongside legitimate leaks. We still have much to learn about these latest cyber-attacks, but it's a place to start."

"So, have I been cleared of any suspicion?" John asked abruptly. His voice was firm, his gaze upon Mycroft unflinching, but apprehension knitted his brow.

John's pained grimace drew Sherlock from his ruminations about the case to decipher the subtext regarding the enquiry.

"I've told you before; you were never a suspect." Mycroft sniffed before sorting the small stack of folders on his tidy desk. His precipitous disinterest indicated that Sherlock and John's audience was over and he needed to return to his day's agenda.

"Captain Collins did his best to make me look like one," John insisted despite Mycroft's dismissive body language.

Sherlock recognized his brother's cool rebuff for what it was—avoidance. Mycroft was hiding something that had nothing to do with National Security. Although prior to the enquiry Mycroft had assured Sherlock that John was not in the hot seat, Sherlock suspected otherwise and scowled at his brother.

"Nevertheless, you dispatched him and acquitted yourself quite well."

Details still remained behind the locked door of knowing looks and shared silence between the two men who were privy to the inquest, but Sherlock was catching on fast.

"I don't get it. What prompted Collins to attack me like that?" Anger edged John's voice.

Mycroft sighed before continuing. "His only brother, a corporal in the army, died on the operating table of a coalition hospital in Afghanistan seven years ago."

John swallowed hard and nodded in understanding.

"Who signed the death certificate?" Sherlock asked his brother and tossed a worried look toward his friend.

"It was _not_ Captain John Watson," Mycroft replied evenly.

"It doesn't matter," John muttered, looking away. He pictured the twenty-five-bed British army hospital closest to the military action in Afghanistan. His heart quickened with the memory of the hectic pace of incoming wounded and the nearly overwhelming scale of their casualties. Although he knew his brain was tricking him, his nostrils flared with the reek of blood and smoke as soldier upon soldier was brought to the operating theater with traumatic brain injuries or otherwise mangled beyond recognition, where another struggle between life and death was fought on the surgical tables. John steadied the tremble in his left hand, stimulated by the recollections.

"Not all could be saved, despite our best efforts," John shook himself free of the memories.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock spoke through gritted teeth, "What possessed you to assign a man with such a compromising personal history as interrogator for a former Army surgeon?"

Mycroft averted his eyes. "Under the circumstances of this urgent matter, we sought the best for the multi-agency team."

"Idiot!" Sherlock snarled at his brother's carelessness, suspecting more that Mycroft had lied to him about insulating John. He should not have trusted his brother to show preferential treatment—Mycroft wouldn't do it for his own siblings, much less for Sherlock's friend. The elder Holmes could never be accused of expressions of sentiment that would interfere with acquiring information. Fortunately at the enquiry, the truth prevailed—demonstrating Mycroft's faith in the system rather than relying on personal connections—but not before subjecting John to an unwarranted, adversarial interrogation.

Mycroft smoothed his suit jacket before defending his position. "Captain Geoffrey Collins has excellent credentials in cyber-terrorism, Sherlock. His work has been impeccable. He heads a top-notch unit and his request to participate in the enquiry was initially seen as a boon to this investigation. It would appear that Collins lost the plot... a bit."

"A bit?" John's eyebrows rose at the understatement.

"What did he say?" Sherlock asked in his menacing baritone.

John trained his eyes on the civil servant who had the power to invoke National Security and waited for clearance to speak freely. It came in a slight nod.

"Among other things, Collins accused me of collaborating with Kumar and working for Russian cyber-terrorists," John looked at Sherlock, then back to Mycroft, "…because I have a blog, and because Kumar apparently went out of his way to find me at the surgery."

"Among _other_ things…?" Sherlock repeated, obviously vexed by the implications his intellect was fast supplying.

The elder Holmes ignored the younger. Instead, Mycroft leveled with John. "When his line of questioning went seriously off track, I had them put a stop to it."

"I didn't see you." John pulled back in surprise. "Were you there, then?"

"Just let's say, I was listening in. I ordered Collins to be taken aside and reminded that you were not a hostile witness in a court of law. He stood down. He has since been reprimanded and is being referred for psychological counselling. Sanctions will be implemented if he does not comply." Mycroft cleared his throat, "The important thing, John, is that your involvement was clearly established as unwitting."

"Hearing my past twisted like that to make me look suspect was bad enough," John exhaled and massaged his neck, "but asking me if I was—implying I was— collaborating with cyber-terrorists: where the _bloody hell_ did that come from?"

"Most disturbing, I agree. Collins showed poor judgement, clouded by a deep bias." Mycroft rose from the chair and peered at the two men standing shoulder-to-shoulder—like soldiers in formation. He paused thoughtfully and offered the doctor an odd grin. It was more smirk than smile, but the gesture was well-intentioned. "John, let me reassure you there is no cause for alarm in this matter. You and your daughter are not targets of any great political power and there will be no further need for your testimony. Your involvement is over."

Turning aside, Mycroft looked down his nose at his brother and cocked a brow of condescension. "So, we are _done_ here, Sherlock. There are more urgent matters requiring my attention. You have my leave."

**888**

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Special nod to "The Six Thatchers" **Transcript by Ariane DeVere** aka Callie Sullivan for identifying _THE DIOGENES CLUB as the location of MYCROFT'S UNDERGROUND OFFICE._


	6. Listen Up Part 2

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**888**

**PART 2**

"Sherlock, why didn't you tell me what you discovered before the enquiry?" John blinked in the bright sunlight and raised a hand to shield his eyes as they stood outside the Diogenes Club.

"I am not yet certain of all my facts, John." Sherlock adjusted the collar of his great coat and squinted at the moving traffic. "How often have I said that one forms provisional theories and waits for time or fuller knowledge to explode them. It is too soon to verify all aspects of this connection, I'm afraid. Besides, there was no need to mislead you with conjecture and no point in giving you too much information before the enquiry."

As Sherlock headed to the street, John followed, suspecting Sherlock would hail a taxi, but the detective let a few go by without raising his arm. Several pedestrians also passed before Sherlock spoke again. "Oh yes, John. Wasn't it fortunate Dr. Kumar's timely appearance dispelled your little black-car mystery?"

"Okay. It wasn't Russian surveillance," John whispered cautiously so only Sherlock could hear, "I made an idiot of myself. It still doesn't explain how he knew who I was, where I lived or that I had been requested to appear."

"It was as I suspected, once Dr. Samarth Kumar introduced himself to me. It was quite simple, really!" Sherlock's eyes tracked another taxi. Again he did not hail it. "As a high-level HPA official familiar with procedure and Fitch's associate, Dr. Kumar was given information about where his son was diagnosed and the time of the enquiry …."

"And he looked me up in the doctor's registry…." Seeing the obvious connection at last, John nodded his head, "of course."

"Your rudeness in spurning him made him rethink his plan to ask you questions about his son on the ride in." Sherlock grinned smugly, "I'm sure now that you're acquainted, that won't be a problem."

"Why had they been estranged?" John recalled seeing the expressions of pain and regret on Jay Kumar's face after asking about his family.

"According to Dr. Kumar it was the result of a painful misunderstanding," Sherlock addressed the faraway look in John's eyes. "It had to do with Jay's announcement that he had quit his computer science work at Uni for a more lucrative position with another organization that required extensive world travel. Kumar's mother had been diagnosed with cancer, so the son's decision was not well received. Except now we know his world travels plan was utter pretense. He had hired on to the cyber-security detail that paid handsomely for his hacking."

"Why did he lie to his family about his whereabouts?"

"My hacker, MID HELL, said if covert cyber-security operators are going to do something risky, it's a precaution they take. As it is difficult to hide one's real identity from trackers of all sorts in a digital age of credit cards, official IDs, home or office key cards, and mobile phones, it's also deemed safer to keep a physical distance from loved ones—preventing a digital trail to them—in case of repercussions."

In case of repercussions. John understood this urgency to protect loved ones, especially since Rosie was born.

"My suspicion about why Kumar took new employment when he did," Sherlock added, "was confirmed when speaking with his father. He was surprised that I knew about the unexplained fluctuations in his own bank account and admitted that his savings showed more than he expected; it was marginal and as his bank did not raise any alarms, he thought he had been in error about his balances. I'm sure if we dug a little deeper, we would find the supplement to his parents' savings was the result of Jay laundering his income. I was speaking to his father about this when you walked in."

"So he did it to help his parents?"

"His father assured me Jay was a good son. It seems so, since he kept his eye on his parents. Yet, until Dr. Kumar received the call from the HPA that his son had died here in London," Sherlock continued, "he thought Jay was out of the country."

"What about Kumar's mother? Her cancer?"

Sherlock turned toward the street, lifted his hand and a taxi pulled kerbside. He swiftly opened the door, but rather than dive in, he stood back. "She died from complications several days ago. Within a week Dr. Kumar lost both his wife and son." Sherlock gestured John to enter the vehicle, "Go on! Take this to work. I need time alone to think."

**888**

On his way to work, John also needed to think. He felt relief that his ordeal with the Kumar case was over and reconsidered his responsibilities. Strangely enough, it was Jay Kumar who had set him an example. The hacker had distanced himself from the people he loved because he saw no other way to protect them from the risks inherent in his work. John would have to do something similar.

**888**

Upon Sherlock's quiet knock, John opened the door. Cold night air followed Sherlock inside and John shivered his greeting as he closed and locked the door. The hour was late and the Watson household was still. After Rosie had fallen asleep, completing the evening routine, John had sent Erika home. That was several hours ago. It was John's quiet time and the reason he had asked Sherlock to stop by.

Sherlock had attributed John's invitation to an eagerness to hear what progress had been made on the investigation since the enquiry that morning. He could not have been more wrong.

"I'm absolutely knackered, so no tea tonight," John sighed, looking uncomfortable as he hovered by the coat rack near the front door.

"Very well. I won't stay," Sherlock nodded. "My update will be brief."

Before Sherlock could go on, John stopped him with an abrupt wave of his hand. "I don't want to know."

"But John, they found the—"

"SHERLOCK!" John emphasized with an adamant shake of his head. "I don't want to know! That's not why I've asked you here."

Their eyes locked briefly. Unable to sustain the intensity, John looked away, attempting to explain. "You see, Sherlock…um….I can't." He swallowed the words he could not say.

"Can't what?" Sherlock suspected where John was headed, but needed him to say it—to have the bollocks to say it.

"Do this." John made a useless gesture toward the world-at-large.

"Do what, John?"

It might have been resignation John heard beneath Sherlock's question.

"This!" John rocked on the balls of his feet. "What we do—what we've done for the past six years!" He crossed his arms defensively and dropped his gaze to the floor. "Before I came along, you had your work and…and… hell, you weren't the easiest person to work with—nobody could really say they worked 'with' you." John inhaled and shook his head. "I'm rubbish at this. What I'm trying to say is that for you, the work is the single most important thing. You ARE your work. You don't have competing concerns." John lifted his shoulder in a half shrug. "For me, that's not true. Not anymore." Mustering his pride, John brought both shoulders back and lifted his chin to meet Sherlock's gaze, "It's settled. I am giving up the work."

Sherlock had known this might happen one day. He had hoped it would not happen so soon. However, the Kumar case, following on the heels of their misadventures with Eurus, helped the newly-minted father make up his mind. No more dangerous associations. It was a logical decision, arising from the superseding love of parent for child. Sherlock would not endanger John and Rosie simply because he wanted John's companionship on cases.

John's posture spoke volumes. Sherlock saw the clear-sighted commitment to duty and responsibilities that he had always admired in his friend. Rosie would always, should always, come first.

"You're sure, John," but Sherlock was not asking, he was affirming.

The nod John gave him said yes, although the sorrow in his eyes told Sherlock it had been a hard decision.

With only a long, firm handshake between them in farewell, Sherlock left without another word.

**888**

For the remainder of the week, John dismissed his underlying disappointment and tried to concentrate on the normalcy of life as a widower, a father, an ordinary doctor tending to his patients—hoping to God no more National Security cases would walk into the surgery. So far, so good, he thought. He had heard nothing from Sherlock, but the headlines couldn't be avoided: three more polonium poisoning victims had been found; a massive search was on. John resolutely refused to watch such news broadcasts, hoping, and failing, to stay blissfully ignorant of the entire matter.

On the Friday following his last conversation with Sherlock, John returned from work to find Erika on the phone and clutching Rosie. The baby dressed in her pyjamas was wiggling to be free of Erika's tight hold, fretting to be put down, but Erika wouldn't let go even though she was speaking on her mobile.

The babyminder's face was ashen, her lips trembling.

"Erika, what's wrong?" John reacted instantly to her expression of alarm.

"Dr. Watson! The bedroom, the bedroom!" Erika gasped with her phone still wedged between her shoulder and ear, pointing with her head. "Right now. A man.. talking in the bedroom!"

An insidious, almost wheedling tone led John to Rosie's room. Pushing open the door, he heard a man's voice coming from the video baby monitor. "Erika! Oh, Er-i-ka? Where did you go? Where are you and your sweet baby? I am waiting. Come back, come back—"

"Who the _fucking hell_ are you?" John raged at the monitor as he stormed the room. "Get the bloody hell away and stay away!"

Whether it was due to his unleashing of another string of profanities, his ominous fury evident on camera, or that John threw a flannel over the camera, the baby monitor went silent.

Shaking with rage and fear, John returned to the living room to comfort the weeping babyminder and hold his fussing baby. Happy to box her dada's ears, Rosie climbed into John's arms, oblivious to the terror the adults had just experienced.

"Oh!" Erika exhaled after expressing distress in her native Finnish. She sniffled, "I am sorry. I did not mean to lose my mind just now, Dr. Watson. Rosie is okay, but even so, I rang 999. They said they will come."

"Thank you, Erika." Closing his eyes, John clung to his baby for his own peace of mind, kissing her and petting her hair, needing to assure himself she was safe. "You did the right thing." Reluctant to part with her, still, he knew Rosie needed her sleep. Kissing her a few more times, John handed her back to Erika. "Please, take her to my room and see if you can get her to sleep in the cot."

Nodding, Erika hummed and waltzed the baby as calmly as she could to the master bedroom.

Although the police had been alerted, John needed assurances about Rose's safety from the only person who could provide them. He rang Sherlock and was heartened his friend answered on the first ring given how they had last parted.

"John." Sherlock sounded as he always did, unperturbed and in control, precisely what John Watson needed to hear at this moment.

"Sherlock!" John exhaled, "Rosie and I need your help. I think we've been hacked."

****88****

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* * *

A.N. To my very special and tireless betas who had seen these two chapters as one very long chapter, I hope this reduction has distilled the best parts without diluting the essential elements. Thank you for your great and generous assistance!


	7. Traces

****88****

After ringing off with Sherlock, John followed the childminder and his daughter into the dim bedroom. The fussing toddler, more interested in playing than sleeping, was taking advantage of Erika's disquiet.

"Let me have her, Erika," John said. Taking Rosie in his arms, he cradled his daughter and spoke in soothing whispers, assuring the baby and the minder that everything would get sorted out. It took only a few minutes of her father's comforting presence for the child's breathing to relax and the soft breaths of slumber heave her chest.

The doctor and childminder had just returned to the living room when the police rang the doorbell. As John let the two constables in, Erika sank into the rocking chair, hugging Rosie's pink bear as if she too could derive comfort from the stuffed animal.

"You reported an electronic 'home invasion,'" PC Thornton said as he pulled his notepad from his jacket pocket and flipped it open. "We'll start by checking out the premises for evidence of any intruder who might have tampered with the device. After we take a statement, we'll file an initial report." Stern, hazel eyes held John's fast, "but as far as providing technical support for a hacked electronic device, that we cannot do. There is another division to which the matter will be referred."

"We'll verify the details, however," PC Boyle picked up immediately, "and apprise the proper division of your complaint. Expect to hear from them within the next twelve hours." Although he was lankier and far taller than his partner, Boyle stood a bit hunched, as if he was used to minding his head. When he realized the ceilings in the Watson home were a comfortable height, he straightened his posture.

"You're… John Watson," Thornton read from the page.

"Yes, I'm the baby's father," John established his identity to prevent confusion. "And this," he pointed to Erika who put the pink bear aside and stood in greeting, "is my daughter's childminder, Erika Linna, who made the call."

"So you heard a man speaking on the baby monitor, Ms. Linna," Boyle affirmed as he sized up the young woman. "Tell us exactly what you were doing this evening before you first heard the voice."

Explaining the evening routine that included Rosie's dinner, bath, and bedtime preparations, Erika shivered as she recalled the brief encounter. "I had dressed Rosie in her pyjamas and was brushing her hair when I heard a man's voice. Once I realized it was the baby cam, I carried Rosie out here and rang 999. Dr. Watson came home while I was speaking with the station."

"This man you heard, what did he say?" Thornton flipped to a fresh page.

Erika palmed her forehead trying to recall the exact words. "What he said was peculiar, something like, 'It worked! I see you. I can see what you're doing.'"

"Did you recognize the voice, Miss Linna?" Thornton's pencil hovered over the notepad as he studied the slender woman for a reaction.

"It was too brief," Erika answered, anxiously tucking a russet strand of hair behind her ear. "But no. I don't believe I've ever heard his voice before."

"Can you describe the voice?" Boyle asked. "High, low, middle range? Was it a human voice or an electronic voice?"

"Human. Middle range," Erika cupped her cheeks and sighed, "Really, it was ordinary, except for coming from the baby monitor—" Tears welled in her eyes and she bit her lower lip.

At her visible distress, Thornton tucked his notepad away. "We'll give you a moment to collect yourself, miss." Turning to Boyle and John, he said. "Let's have a look at the device, shall we?"

"The baby monitor has been quiet since I threw a flannel over the camera," John said as he led them to the dark nursery.

"We've seen this quite a bit lately," Thornton told John. He switched on the light and entered Rosie's room, Boyle right behind him, while John waited in the doorway, watching every move.

The constables eyes were drawn to the wall décor just beyond the trendy mobile—a shoal of black fish —suspended over the changing unit. The wallpaper design—an apple tree surrounded by soaring long-tailed blue birds—was stylish, but the floating clowns seemed out of place for the otherwise tasteful home.

"So, you're partial to clowns, eh?" Boyle glanced at John. "Except for the clown hacking into your monitor, I'd wager."

Thornton elbowed his partner and pointed to the video monitor on the baby's chest of drawers. He lifted the flannel to peep at it. "Y'see, that's the problem with these high-tech baby monitors. When they're connected to the internet, they invite trouble."

"Yeah. Once they're part of a network," Boyle chimed in, "they're easy targets. And you don't have to be a bona fide hacker to do it. No, lots of amateurs out there, real sickos some of 'em. At least, those are the ones we _can_ catch." He bent closer to the monitor so whoever was listening would not miss a word. "If you're hearing this, mate, we _will_ find you!"

The constables examined the nursery window and the wardrobe, verified with John that nothing was taken, then examined the floor for unusual footprints, and recorded the brand and serial number of the baby monitor. There was little else to find. No one had physically entered the room; the invasion was as intangible as ether.

When they returned to the living room, stacks of baby garments, like short buildings, were spread across the sofa cushions forming a city in miniature. Erika, more composed by virtue of her task, continued folding the laundry and did not interrupt the conversation that entered the room with the men.

"I didn't turn it off or disconnect the power supply," John explained. "I've heard that keeps all the information about the hacker in the device."

"Yes, you did the right thing, Dr. Watson," Thornton assured him, still jotting in his notepad. "Smart not to pull the plug on the monitor. I know most people just yank it out in fright. For now, you might still have something to trace."

"Well, so long as it is not traced to locations overseas," Boyle clarified. "Then, there isn't much we can do. You know, two years ago, Russian hackers had a website live-streaming footage from thousands of webcams, including baby monitors and other Wi-Fi enabled cameras."

"Yeah, I remember that being in the news." The reminder about the Russian hackers, coming so close on the investigation of the probable Russian involvement in Jay Kumar's assassination, made the hairs on John's neck prickle. "That's _why_ we took precautions when _we_ set it up …"

_We._ To help John care for Rosie when Mary had gone into hiding, Sherlock had installed the high-tech baby monitor. It was for peace of mind when John had to enlist the services of temporary childminders and occasional friends to watch her. After Mary's death, John had come to rely on it. It reassured him all was well. A brief glimpse of Rosie during naptime was often all he needed. "To be sure, I don't understand how this happened," he told the constables. "We limited the remote IP addresses that can connect to the router, and—"

"Well, we're not the experts," Boyle removed his hat and scratched his balding, freckled head, before slipping it back on, "but it sounds like you are. I imagine you gave it a new password too."

John heaved a weary sigh. "I did. Thought it was secure. I'm well aware of the recommended security measures. The monitor's password is very strong…." John realized it was too strong. He had allowed Sherlock to create it and it was a nightmare to input, which was why he had saved the password to his phone.

Clearly unpersuaded it was as secure as John Watson believed, Thornton advised, "Well, we'd recommend making it more secure."

John didn't know if that were possible.

Erika had been listening as she transferred the stack of baby clothes to a basket. "I won't put these things away in the nursery just yet." Abruptly she sat on the sofa, shifting the basket to her lap. "I'm so sorry—" she sounded crestfallen.

"About what, Erika?" John was puzzled by her apology. Since she had been engaged, they had had an open and respectful rapport. He depended on her professional conduct and valued how attentive a caregiver she was to Rosie.

"I'm sorry how I've reacted, Dr. Watson," Erika directed her remark to her employer ignoring the constables in the room. "I thought I had a head on my shoulders and would respond appropriately during an emergency. But this hacking—" she nodded toward the nursery, "—is a…it feels like a violation. Minders and au pairs who have had such trouble have told me they were terrified by it. Now I understand why. I apologize because while it was happening tonight, I didn't know what else to do."

"It's okay," John nodded in understanding. "You did the right thing. There was little else you or any of us, for that matter, could do under the circumstances."

She shook her head. "But, I am disappointed with myself." Displeasure flickered in her eyes. "I've trained in self-defense. I took classes for women at school. I've learnt to be on guard and prepared… I know awareness and avoidance strategies, but this, this is different. There's no one to…see…to strike back."

"It's a scary thing, Miss," Boyle interposed kindly, "but, the creepers out there are the real cowards; trolls they are, hiding in the internet."

"Anything else you want to add?" Thornton's professional tone to bring the conversation back on track came off as indifferent. John recognized it well, having used the same technique himself, perhaps a little less rudely, to discourage patients who were long-winded about minor ailments.

Erika shook her head once more and studied the basket of fresh laundry in her lap.

"That's a 'no' I take it." Thornton interpreted her gesture.

"Huh?" John's eyes narrowed in surprise. He expected Erika to add more and found it odd that she had omitted a very important detail—that the hacker knew her name.

Where he stood near Thornton, John could read the constable's note upside down: _Victim upset. No more relevant information forthcoming. No further questions necessary._

_"You see, but you do not observe."_ As if Sherlock were in the room, John heard the familiar voice; the constables were going through the motions, technically fulfilling official procedure, taking notes and offering security advice. The two of them were ticking off the boxes but that was all.

Another Sherlock Holmes' dictum played in John's head: " _It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data."_

Suddenly it was clear: these constables had entered his home already presuming there was little they could do. Maybe they had logged too many unsuccessful baby-monitor hacking cases to consider the Watson incident as anything but routine, but that was immaterial to John at this moment. _Sod their reasons!_ His left hand curled into a fist.

"All right, then!" Thornton clapped his notepad shut and looked toward his partner for confirmation. "This is likely a case of improper use of public electronic communications network under the Communications Act 2003, but unless we have a name or names or a way to identify the attacker we cannot interview potential suspects or further this investigation."

To offset the negatives, Boyle resumed on cue with the positives. "Even if we can't pursue an investigation right now, we have logged the incident and will remain on the alert. If IT can identify the IP address, as my partner says, you might have something to work with. And don't forget," he added, "about those software updates! They fix the problems that hackers exploit."

Thornton rushed through his closing. "Dr. Watson, you will need an IT expert to come examine the network connections. We can refer you to Victim Support NI for help. And Ms. Linna, if you remember anything, we urge you to ring the authorities. Here's a leaflet, 'Information for Victims of Crime' we recommend you read. Tomorrow we'll have a case number for you both to reference with your inquiries. We're done here. G'night."

"No. Wait!" John's hand shot out to stop them, his voice tense with anger. "You haven't asked _me_ what I heard?—"

Thornton halted in his tracks, but Boyle had already swung open the door. The chill of the night air greeted him along with the piercing eyes of a tall man in a dark long coat and deep blue scarf.

"Hallo!" Startled, Boyle bristled and moved his hand defensively to his stick. "What the—"

"No need for that, Boyle!" The baritone boomed with authority while his penetrating stare never wavered from the constable. "I'm not an _un_ invited guest; isn't that right, John?"

Sherlock's sudden but timely appearance could not have been more welcome.

"Yes!" John grinned in relief expecting now the investigation would start to get somewhere. He caught Thornton's questioning look and gave a little head-tilt toward the doorway, "I've been expecting him. He's Sherlock Holmes."

"I've had a thorough look round outside," Sherlock announced as he pushed past the constables and joined the doctor. "There is no sign of an intruder which, despite it being a lack of evidence, is information of telling significance."

"You called the _hat_ detective?" Mouth agape, Boyle stared at Sherlock.

"Of course, he did. And he knew I'd come, straightaway." Sherlock took in John's strained face, half-smiled then turned to the two abashed PC's with a far sterner expression. "I'm here because he's _that_ Dr. Watson, _and_ my friend." Noting the open door, he barked, "Where ARE your manners, Boyle? Shut the door, preferably with you on the outside, though I dare say, if I heard Dr. Watson correctly, Thornton, you have unfinished business here."

"Now, John," he said, looking straight at him while removing his gloves and stuffing them in his pockets, "what did _you_ hear?"

John relaxed, knowing the investigation into what was going on would now begin in earnest. "More than what Erika heard…apparently," John hesitated, not wanting to accuse his childminder of deceit, especially in the presence of the police. It was possible she sped from the room before the speaker addressed her directly.

"John?" The man with the glacial eyes prompted him.

"Ah, yes…. what I heard." John turned toward his childminder and cleared his throat. "Erika, the man on the monitor—when I entered the room—was calling you by name."

" _My_ name? No! No," Erika seemed genuinely surprised by John's statement. "I never heard my name," she shook her head adamantly, but after, her face showed concern.

"I just want to clear this up," John told her gently as his eyes darted toward the constables.

Thornton, grim-faced, pulled out his pencil and opened his notepad again. Boyle folded his arms and cocked his head to listen.

"I distinctly heard him say _Erika_. In fact, he said it twice," John addressed them all but he looked pointedly at the girl. "The speaker also wanted to know 'where you and your sweet baby' had gone. He said he was waiting and called for you to come back—"

As John had described what he had heard, Erika's eyes widened; her hand covered her mouth. "How can that be?" She shook her head to dispel her increasing fear and sucked in an anxious breath. "Now, it's even _more_ terrifying!"

"No!" Sherlock clapped his hands and beamed a broad smile at the childminder. "It's brilliant!"

"What?" Erika questioned in utter bewilderment. "How so?"

"Isn't it obvious to you?" Sherlock spun toward the constables before returning to John. "Yes, but _you_ know. What your heard is key!" Sherlock paused, waiting for the expressions on the constables' faces to register they had made the connection.

It was John who voiced it, "It's not some Russian hacker from overseas picking us randomly, it is someone you _know_ or…at least, someone who knows _you_ , Erika—"

"—Exactly!" Sherlock interjected. "You are not ostentatious in your dress, Erika. You don't flaunt your identity by wearing jewelry or accessories that bear your name. You are certainly not wearing an ID, like PCs Boyle and Thornton here, allowing a perfect stranger who comes to the door on a cold dark night to identify them; certainly you do not identify yourself while tending to Rosie in the privacy of the Watson home….unless, oh! Wait—" Sherlock whirled on Erika, "tell me _precisely_ what you were saying or doing when the man began to speak."

"Brushing Rosie's hair and humming."

"Immediately before or during that time did you ever say your name aloud or refer to yourself while using 'infant-directed speech' with Rosie?" Seeing Erika's puzzled frown, Sherlock clarified in an amusing falsetto, " _Erika_ 's going to brush your hair… _Erika's_ going to hum… _Erika's_ going to watch her favorite crap telly…?"

Erika pulled a face. "No. I don't talk like that at all, especially not with Rosie."

"Good girl!" Sherlock congratulated her. "So… how did he know your name?" Sherlock's voice grew faint as he mused the possibilities. "Even if a random hacker could make wild guesses using the most popular names from the hundreds of thousands of possibilities, still he'd have to be quite lucky. Or perhaps, he has psychic abilities? Don't think so!" He shook his head in rejection. "We all know that's complete rubbish. So, we have to conclude it is neither of those things." Sherlock rubbed his hands together in excitement as his eyes came back to John. "How often have I said that when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth? John, your hacker made a mistake. His blunder has narrowed the field considerably."

"But, Mr. Holmes, I don't know the person on the monitor...at least I don't think so," Erika protested.

"You may not realize it!" The detective was revved up and speeding toward the finish. "We know it's someone who knows _you_ by name. He could be a shop clerk, someone bagging groceries, a hairstylist, someone who may have seen you swipe your credit card during a purchase at Tesco or the pub; someone who has seen your ID at the library or during a night out. This puts the perpetrator within reach. And perhaps because the hacking began tonight, this person may be someone you encountered recently. Yet, he found the Watson baby monitor that is formidably password protected… a real mystery this… and that is the link I must establish." Sherlock shut his eyes and steepled his fingers against his lips.

"What about the IP address on the monitor?" Thornton reminded John. "It's what I said before. An expert should be able to trace it to the hacker."

"It's _how_ to run that trace without letting the hacker know…" Sherlock mumbled distantly; he covered his eyes with one hand to calculate the process in his mind. Seconds later, his eyes snapped open and he dropped the theatrical pose. "That's it! John! Your laptop... _if you don't mind_."

John pointed to the laptop on the desk and Sherlock disappeared with it into the nursery.

"So you're _that_ Dr. Watson?" Boyle shook his head and drew a deep breath. "Is he always this… exhausting?"

"He's excelling at it, tonight," John replied flatly. His friend's highly animated state was not unusual when there was a case to solve. By Sherlock's own admission he solved "crimes as an alternative to getting high."

John exhaled a soft sigh. With Sherlock now present and eager to solve a case, this incident would get sorted out. And while Mary claimed _John Watson_ would never have sought help for himself, John would do anything for his daughter. Rosie needed the protection of the best analytical mind he could trust. Yet, what most heartened John was seeing his friend "come straightway" after he called.

"Well, Dr. Watson," Thornton drew John from his thoughts. "If your friend is a good as his reputation, you might be in luck. No matter, we'll give your case all the attention it requires to ensure both you and your daughter are safe."

" _Nice._ Something to look forward to," John let slip, but his cheeky quip sailed under the officious PC's radar, much to his relief.

"How long will this take, you think?" Boyle nodded toward the nursery, and shifted from foot to foot, his curiosity piqued.

As if on cue, Sherlock returned to the living room, a different man than he had left it. Instead of soaring spirits he appeared troubled.

"No success after all?" John frowned in anticipation of the bad news.

"No, I've been quite successful," Sherlock locked eyes with John. "The hacker's IP address was easily accessible and established to be a mobile phone—" then with one eyebrow raised in judgement, he looked sharply at the childminder, "—registered to Erika K. Linna."

****88****


	8. Password Protect

_Men are only as good_

_as their technical development_

_allows them to be._

— _George Orwell_

**888**888**

"Hand me your phone, Erika!" Sherlock demanded imperiously.

The stunned childminder sitting on the sofa clutched the laundry basket of folded baby clothes and froze.

"No!" PC Thornton stepped forward.

"It's evidence—"PC Boyle interposed, one step behind his partner.

" _Sher-_ lock?" John's first instinct was also to step forward to defend his childminder and ignore the sinking feeling—the gut-wrenching sense of betrayal that would trigger his rage. Rather than lose faith in Erika, he hoped to God that it was all a misunderstanding and that Sherlock somehow had got it wrong, as unlikely as that might be.

"Wait!" Sherlock held up a pacifying palm that halted the men behind him while he turned back to the young woman. "I know _you're_ not the hacker, Erika!" he said before whirling toward the constables and John with an impatient scoff. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Obvious?" John's face brightened with relief despite his confusion; the constables scowled skeptically.

"Yes! Obvious! Or at least, it will soon be. Besides _, this_ woman," Sherlock's stretched hand pointed toward the sofa, "has been vetted by the highest government authorities. Her record is sterling. For God's sakes, you think Mycroft and I would be so reckless in our researches? She is as trustworthy in ways that matter, just as you, John, and that is the highest standard I hold for a human being. Obviously, she's _not_ the culprit, but her ignorance about technology is a contributing factor."

"What are you saying, Mr. Holmes?" Boyle exchanged looks with Thornton. "You just identified her IP address—?"

"Her IP was a proxy—I can prove how it was used…. There's an easy explanation, actually," Sherlock turned around once more and repeated, "but, Erika, I need your phone to check your apps and settings."

Under the scrutiny of four authoritative men Erika set aside the laundry basket and stood up to fish her mobile from her back pocket. She chewed her bottom lip, mortified. A deep blush spread across her cheeks as she swiped on the device, input her passcode, and placed it in Sherlock's outstretched hand.

"Oh, the ubiquitous mobile phone!" the detective crowed and opened the _wireless & networks_ settings on Erika's phone. "Big Brother at his finest! Forget the prying eyes of CCTV cameras all around us. Very few places are safe from prying _ears_. Whether we know it or not, we are all carrying listening devices—mobile phones—that any carrier on the slightest suspicions could turn against us or anyone near us without us ever knowing….and don't think it isn't happening to the lot of us!"

"Wait, Mr. Holmes," Thornton warned hesitantly, "Forensics requires a chain of custody… for digital evidence. Besides, how do we know you aren't tampering with the device yourself?"

"Tampering? Too late for that! Someone else has already done the mischief, and poor Erika has unwittingly let him do it. Look!" Sherlock held the phone aloft for all to see. "I have merely opened the settings without changing anything. You're digital evidence remains intact. But now, as I suspected, this listening device has become the tool for technological identity fraud. When a triflingly overlooked feature—I am referring to _NFC_ —is toggled on, it enables shared-access to private accounts."

"NFC?" PC Boyle whispered mystified.

" _Near Field Communication!_ It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles." Exhilarated, Sherlock was pontificating at hyper speed. "NFC is the tap-to-pay technology that allows one device to transfer money, images, video, text messages, business cards —might I emphasize _entire_ app _s_ and _saved_ passcodes—to another merely by 'bumping' against another receptive device while the apps are open. Sometimes touch is not necessary at all. Being in close proximity—as NFC implies— is sufficient. Done in close-range—think no greater than ten centimeters—it's what generally makes NFC somewhat secure. We use it as our 'mobile wallet.' The youngest Millennials hardly think twice about it. The smartphone replaces the need to carry cash, credit cards, even preprinted concert tickets. In one tap or wave of our phones, we pay for groceries and redeem offers or coupons. And...not surprisingly, Erika has hers turned on right now."

"Oh, no! My bank account!" Erika cupped her cheeks in dismay and sank back down onto the sofa. "Someone has access to it?"

"With NFC, that possibility exists…" Sherlock capitalized on Erika's question, relishing the opportunity to expound more thoroughly on the topic for his captive audience. "All the more reason why financial institutions are moving away from usernames and passwords toward fingerprint scans and other more secure techniques to identify their customers, including biometrics like iris scans, facial recognition or voice prints. They are far more secure—" Noting Erika's increasing distress, Sherlock moderated his remarks. "A reputable financial institution such as yours, Erika, would have safeguards in place. Still, I recommend you contact your bank and explain what happened. You might also recommend they implement biometrics identification as soon as possible."

"Why is all this happening …? First, the baby monitor… hacked…and my phone did it, ...now my bank account …too?" She covered her eyes with her hands, " _kauhea_!"

"No, no, Erika," Sherlock grimaced in frustration at the young woman's reaction. He had just given her the solution to the predicament she found herself in. Looking toward John in bewilderment, Sherlock urged his friend—with a sharp tilt of his head—to deal with the spiraling emotionalism of the childminder.

John raised his palms in protest, indicating that Sherlock needed to fix his own messes.

Sherlock frowned, considered that he needed to adjust his tone, and continued in a kinder voice, "No. I didn't say _your_ accounts were actually hacked. In fact, I suspect they'll be fine, particularly because of what I saw you do earlier with your phone."

Erika looked up with hope in her eyes.

"That's better!" Sherlock enthused, seeing the change in her mood as she grasped his meaning. "I noticed that you typed in a passcode to access your phone. Do you rely on autofill passwords to access your phone apps or do you input a passcode each time you pull up an application?"

She shook her head. "Too many dangers with autofill, so I input my codes …," she hesitated briefly, "… well usually, for most things. Okay, to be honest, not everything. But I _do_ take care about my mobile banking."

"Good, girl! That's just another level of security which may be enough of a deterrent to keep an amateur thief—which I think our hacker is—out of your account for now. More importantly, do you close your apps after you're finished?"

"Close them?" She blinked to think. "Oh yes, you mean…. ' _swipe'_ them closed or press the X. I don't know that I do it _all_ the time. For my banking app I do, but…," she drawled, "the important apps close automatically…they 'time out,' yes?"

"Yes. However, if I press the Overview button," Sherlock still held the phone up for John and the constables to see what he was doing," it will show which apps are still open. Word to the wise: if you leave them open and running, they drain your battery. Most people don't close them because it's inconvenient, one step too many to deal with."

At Erika's sheepish expression, Sherlock reassured her, "You're not the only idiot. When it comes to this, everyone's an idiot! May I check what's running?"

Erika nodded.

Sherlock went one by one through the opened apps: social media, music, text messages, YouTube, weather, camera, fanfiction reader, email …. "Ah, ha! What have we here?" He smiled to himself and then he showed Erika the app displayed on her phone, before turning the phone and his smile for the others to see.

"It's the baby monitor app!" Sherlock crooned in self-satisfied delight, "still open and running."

"Well, that explains it!" Boyle said, uncertainty lingering in his voice. "We still don't know who though, do we?"

"Wait! How did you come to have the baby monitor app on your phone?" Thornton inquired of Erika, almost accusingly. "Usually parents have them to watch the child… _and_ the minder…." His eyes darted toward John.

Erika also looked toward John for the explanation.

"I gave it to her two days ago," John acknowledged as he met the puzzled stares of both constables, "for scheduling reasons." While John did not care to explain his motives aloud, he would be rubbish at it, even if he tried.

Keenly feeling the constables judging him, John understood how it appeared. It _did_ seem questionable yet it boiled down to trust, for there were few people John fully trusted with Rosie. It was as simple as that, and Erika had become one of them, mostly because, for the past month and a half, the childminder had taken the chaos in his life and had made a predictable routine possible. Her assistance had been both curative and a comfort.

"Because two days ago, I was called out of town…." John stopped there. He did not want to share the tedious details, how the daily grind was not without its unexpected scheduling hassles, despite Erika. Just several days earlier, one such challenge had arisen when John had been asked, in lieu of another GP, to attend the Royal Pharmaceutical Society Annual Conference in Birmingham. Had he gone into work as normal that day, he would have been taking the later shift because Erika had been prescheduled for an infant first-aid course in the morning. Even though the medical conference took precedence, John had not wanted Erika to miss the course she was required to complete for her final certification by the local authorities. The difficulty this presented was that Erika would be away for several hours at the local training center while John would be gone a minimum of twelve hours, traveling to and from the conference 200 kilometers away.

Ultimately, John had decided to schedule a temporary minder for his daughter through the service he had used before, enabling him to attend the conference and allowing his childminder to complete her certification. To ensure continuity of care, John had given Erika—his safety net—the baby monitor app, including the saved passcode. Knowing that someone he trusted—who was literally minutes away and could reach the temp minder or 999 should the baby-monitor alarm indicate there was an emergency—gave him much-needed peace of mind.

"To put it simply, I trust Erika with the app…," John explained to the constables and his friend. "And just as you described, Sherlock, we transferred the app, with the password saved in autofill, by touching phone to phone. That would mean someone had to physically bump her mobile—"

"Precisely, John! While the odds are astronomical that the password might have been guessed, it does leave only one possible alternative: NFC. So, when did her phone connect with the hacker's mobile?" Sherlock swiped the screen to display her settings. "I see you've set your mobile to sleep after two minutes of inactivity. So now we have a window of opportunity when it's at its most vulnerable. _Two_ minutes! This, Erika, is where I need you to recall as accurately as possible recent events. Think! When might you have left your phone unguarded and open for two minutes? Had you placed it down near a cashier? Had you been using it on a crowded Tube and possibly been jostled by a sudden start or stop and bumped into another passenger? Did a recent mobile wallet transaction take a bit longer than usual?"

Her stare turned inward; Erika leant back against the sofa cushions. "I don't _lay_ my phone down unattended at the cashier's station or on a worktop at a café," she said thoughtfully. "I usually shut it off and put it in my pocket or purse first. No. I would not put it down and move away from it at all. It could be stolen, even if it is off, No, I don't do that in public.… only in my flat—" Erika's concentrated expression burst with surprise. "Oh, no! My flatmate Chloe's ex! Could that be why all this is happening?"

At Erika's epiphany of a possible culprit, the constables and John leant forward, eager.

"Go on," Sherlock encouraged her softly. "Tell us _everything_ you remember."

"Excuse my English," Erika faced her audience shyly. "I was taught well in school, but only three months ago I moved here. My flatmate is a Brit. She helps me practice speaking all the time. Chloe tells me I have improved. She is kind." Her amused smile disappeared when Erika exhaled. "Okay. Last night, we waited for a delivery from the nice Indian place, you know the one near Sainsbury …," Erika shook her head and closed her eyes briefly, "…that doesn't matter. Our order was late, almost twenty minutes. They're usually good over there. I was ringing them to find out what happened, when the doorbell chimed. Chloe was closer to the door; she went to answer it. The kettle had just boiled too; I put my phone down on the coffee table and went to the kitchen to pour our tea. I heard Chloe …she was happy…before opening the door, and then, the next thing, _hämmästys! Surprise!_ She was standing in the kitchen…next to me, all…you say,...flustered…, acting like she was hiding….You see, from our kitchen, we can't be seen from the front door…" Erika now looked from man to man, her eyes settling on Sherlock. Her voice grew more animated as she pieced the events together. "Chloe whispered, 'You pay the delivery man.' She handed me the money. I thought it quite odd and argued that I was fixing the tea, but she said, 'Please, please! You do it for me!' She looked ready to cry. She also insisted I send him away as quickly as possible, which I did."

Erika drew a deep breath in her excitement, no longer unsettled by the four pairs of eyes focused on her. "When he was gone, Chloe told me they had a history, a bad one. Two years ago—long before she and I met—they had dated for several months. He was charming and she felt flattered. But the longer she got to know him, she noticed things he did. He had lots of his money, sometimes, and then other times, very little. Chloe called him a 'proper skint.' Then he would _borrow_ ," Erika added the air quotes for emphasis, "from Chloe, but he never paid her back. His behavior was weird, too. When he was drunk or maybe high on drugs —she didn't know what he used— he sent her text messages. You know, vulgar, crude messages. She became afraid of him. Finally, she told him, 'no more." He did not listen. He threatened her, stalked her, and visited her where she worked. He shouted at her in front of all her colleagues. She was embarrassed and scared. After months with police help, she got an O _rder of Protection_. Since then, she's moved several times, switched jobs, and changed her phone. She's been very careful about giving her personal contact information out. She's stayed off social media because of him. Over a year ago, she heard he had got arrested. She had hoped he had lost track of her as she had of him."

"A definite _Order of Protection_ violation, that is," Boyle commented to his partner.

Nodding in agreement, Thornton was already scribbling notes on a fresh page.

"Chloe hoped it was a coincidence," Erika added, "a bad coincidence, but she called the police anyway. No news so far since she called. I do not have a good feeling. I'm afraid he's stalking her again. There have been other strange coincidences before this, but this is the first time he's made an appearance."

John caught Sherlock's eye and both shared a grimace of concern.

"And no surprise, he does not work as a delivery boy for _Tandoori's_. We know our regular guy. Ray said didn't know anything about our order." Erika continued, "Of course, we didn't eat our takeaway. We'd lost our appetites. Who knows if he added anything to it …everything Chloe told me made him sound like a, your word is, _bad arse_ …"

Sherlock stared hard at the childminder. "How do you think he got your name, Erika?" John could read in Sherlock's face that the detective had already deduced the answer, but Sherlock wanted Erika to establish the connection for the police. "You did _not_ tell him your name, did you?"

"No, of course not!" Erika met Sherlock's gaze confidently. "But our names were on the day's unopened post, some magazines too, everything was on the coffee table next to my phone—and my phone had not yet gone to sleep…."

"And now, of course, Erika, you have a name and possibly the identity of the baby monitor hacker?" Sherlock flashed a superior grin toward the constables who had earlier that evening dismissed the need for further questioning and had been heading out the door.

"Yes. I do," Erika quirked a worried half smile. "It is Logan…Logan Pierce, and I have a description, too."

888

  
**888**


	9. Solutions

*****888*****

"Sherlock," John confided over a cuppa in the quiet kitchen of the Watson household. "The password..." he scratched his nose, a subconscious stalling tactic. "…it's too strong."

Both men sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table had been savoring the silence along with the tea after the constables had escorted Erika home. PCs Thornton and Boyle had also made it clear their stop at her flat would include taking additional statements from Chloe about Logan Pierce.

Fatigued after his long day at the surgery and his unexpectedly disruptive evening, John wanted to shake off all thoughts about flatmates with criminal ex-boyfriends, electronic home invasions of privacy, and the ubiquity of digital surveillance. Yet, he could not rest until the hacked passcode was changed. It would be a simple fix as long as he didn't meet with Sherlock's resistance.

"Too strong you say, John?" Sherlock took another sip of his tea and smacked his lips. "As well it should be."

John studied the whirlpool effect in his tea as he circled the mug enfolded within his hands. "Yaaas, but it's so _bloody_ long—"

"You had asked for maximum security," the detective frowned, "I provided such. Have you learnt _nothing_ about the danger of cyberattacks from unethical hackers and trolls—?" As much as he wanted to share what he knew, Sherlock cut short mentioning the recent polonium poisoning investigation precipitated by John's patient, Jay Kumar. The last time he had attempted to broach the topic, John had announced his "retirement" from their work.

"Let's not go there, Sherlock!" John snapped in frustration. "You and Mycroft have assured me that I am under the radar. This baby cam hacking has nothing to do with FSB! _Right_?"

"Yes, right, John, you are under their radar, but that does not mean you cannot fall victim to random hackers seeking to wreck people's lives. We have witnessed tonight how even network-connected household items, just as with computers, can create security risks. For that reason, John, I have deemed it essential to prevent unauthorized access from internet hackers to your electronic device, which is why I chose a memorable twenty-eight-word phrase—"

"—memorable? It's a _damned_ chemical formula in words!—"

Sherlock talked over John's interruption, "—it's a _basic_ chemical formula in a sentence, and includes capitalizations, spaces and punctuation, which are all allowable. Anything shorter than twenty-three words would best be random numbers and letters to make up for its brevity, but I could not expect you to remember them. With practice, you would have been able to input the entire sentence in just over ten seconds, which is an acceptable duration."

"All of this may be true for you, not me! And, _why_ the hell did it have to be in French?"

"It was an added precaution. I left off the diacritical marks to make it easier for you. Even without them, it still makes it quite formidable—"

John set his mug down and scowled. "Except, your formidable password didn't work because you failed to take into account the human element. The amateur hacker didn't have to guess it to use it."

A small wrinkle formed at the bridge of Sherlock's nose. His crystal-clear eyes focused on the milky tea below the rim of his mug. Lifting it to his lips he took another sip and swallowed before offering a reply in a neutral tone. "I have to agree with you. Unreliable _humans_ bypassed the safeguards that should have otherwise worked. Erika who is multilingual is bright enough, as are you. You both could have easily committed the passcode to memory so as not to need to rely on autofill, despite how formidable the password is. I'm afraid that it demonstrates sheer laziness on your parts. I admit that I am disappointed that you and Erika chose to do what every other person who can't be bothered does, merely because you felt it was burdensome."

"Memorizing the sentence was only half the problem!" John pushed back into his seat and looked away. _No. not doing this!_ At one time, he would have taken exception to Sherlock's rebuke, and retorted sharply, thereby escalating the disagreement, but not tonight. John had been wearied by too much anguish and aggravation in the past few weeks— _hell, the past six months_ —to kindle this small dispute into a full-blow conflagration of egos. Besides, he knew by simple demonstration that he could persuade Sherlock to agree with him.

An uncomfortable silence settled between them. The longer it held, the more frequently Sherlock glanced at his friend. He was expecting an outburst of indignation.

"I have an idea," John said rather quietly behind another sip.

"Hmm?" John's calm back-footed his friend.

"I propose a contest."

"Why?"

"To prove a point."

"What point?" Sherlock leant back in his chair and tipped the tea mug to finish his drink. His eyes narrowed suspiciously as he peered back at John.

John remained unflappable. "Let's see how long it takes you to input the password you've created for the baby monitor—which you claim is most secure—compared to the strong and secure passwords I use for my other apps, which I've been assured is perhaps as effective if not as formidable."

Intrigued, Sherlock gave John a quick half-smile, a slow nod and set down his tea mug, his eyes flashing with amusement at the challenge.

"I admit, Sherlock," John continued, "I am much slower than you at typing on the phone's keypad."

"Oh! Should I ring _The Guardian_ with that _breaking_ news?" Sherlock teased.

"Stop it, now, and listen to me!" John licked his lips to cover his grin. There was no point in encouraging Sherlock's sarcasm. "I want to give you the opportunity to observe your solution as a practical application in real time."

"Hooo-kay. Agreed." Sherlock pulled out his phone, swiped open the baby monitor app and waited for John to pull up his mobile app to login into his email account. "Say _when_."

Their gazes met. John synchronized his countdown with his own heartbeats. _"Go!"_

With lightning speed Sherlock's fingers flew over the phone keypad; the chemical formula in French was no challenge for his brilliant memory and extraordinary dexterity: _Deux molécules de sulfate de zinc solide réagissant avec trois molécules de gaz d'oxygène produiront deux molécules d'oxyde de zinc solide et deux molécules de dioxyde de soufre._ Swiftly, Sherlock gained access to the baby monitor several seconds shy of his ten-second prediction.

John had also finished shy of ten-seconds, even though he had typed much more slowly.

Sherlock sat back in his chair. "Well? What does this prove?"

"It is the time differential I am trying to demonstrate here. I just wanted to show you that I, too, have a strong password; it's a four-word phrase with spaces and very limited punctuation, but it is much more manageable for me than yours is."

"I've encouraged you to practice to improve your speed…"

"Practice still won't help. Not everyone can play the violin no matter how hard they try. Hell, we all know _you're_ the genius, Sherlock. Sorry to disappoint if you were holding out hope for me," he finished drily and ignored Sherlock's exaggerated eye roll.

"But I'm sure you see the problem. Consider: if there were an emergency and I needed to gain quick access to the monitor the way you suggest I should, I would still be fumbling, all thumbs. The higher the frustration level, the less able I am to type accurately. Without autofill, I would never be able to gain access at all, and especially in a pinch. How does having such a clever and formidable password help Rosie then?"

A flicker of concern appeared in Sherlock's eyes. "Point taken," he said evenly and looked away. After a brief pause, he cleared his throat. "If it were so bad, why hadn't you changed it sooner?"

"Yeah. I should have, but I was out of my head for quite a while, at least back when—" John fought a shuddering breath to keep his voice from quivering. Shaking his head to dispel the raw memories, he regained enough control so that his voice was even and strong. "Besides, autofill worked fine. But now, it's time to make another _drastic_ change, just as with _everything_ else in my life."

His words triggered them both to retreat into the privacy of their own thoughts. In that charged silence, each considered the drastic changes that had brought them together, driven them apart, tested them, and transformed them. "Change" had been the one constant in their lives and this truth would never change; but whether they could adapt, survive—"get _the hell_ on with it," come what may—was still an unknown.

The words " _it is what it is,"_ and the circumstances in which Sherlock had said them, echoed in John's head and brought him out of his reverie. He rolled the end-of-an-exhausting-day stiffness out of his shoulders and resumed the conversation where they had left off. "Look, the password wouldn't have been any easier for me if you _had_ translated it into English: which is… _what,_ exactly?"

Distant behind a carefully impassive expression, Sherlock obligingly rattled off the translation in one breath. "Two molecules of solid Zinc Sulphide reacting with three molecules of Oxygen gas will produce two molecules of solid Zinc Oxide and two molecules of Sulphur dioxide gas."

"Nope, that won't do, either." John hid his wry smile behind his tea mug. "If we're agreed—and I think we are—and since you have conveniently accessed the baby monitor app, we might as well use your phone to reset the password. It will certainly block Chloe's stalker/hacker ex-boyfriend/whatever-the-hell _lag_ he is, from hacking my daughter's baby cam again, yes?"

"Yes!" Swiftly, Sherlock opened the settings to reset the password for the baby cam monitor and offered his phone to John.

"No," John protested and pushed back the hand that held the mobile. "I'll let you input it for me. You're quicker."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up; he was pleased by John's gesture. His overzealous password notwithstanding, Sherlock could not imagine that John would keep the new one a secret as they _both_ might need access in an emergency; however, it was the _way_ John involved him in the change that spoke volumes. Given all the drastic changes they had both endured, Sherlock expected some ups and downs between them—after Mary, he would be a fool not to— which was why he appreciated every sign of John's renewed trust.

"I will dictate a code," John said with a mischievous glint in his eye. "It's a slight variation of my email password, so I'm sure I can input it easily. Ready?"

"Ready."

" **Knowledge** _space_ **of** _space_ **chemistry** _semicolon space cap P_ **Profound** _end stop_." John chuckled softly. "I like that one, don't you?"

***888***

***888***

It would be several days of painstaking detective work by the local constabulary to catch the stalker in the act. Whether Sherlock assisted on the sly, _they_ would never know, but when Logan Pierce was apprehended, he was charged with violating an _Order of Protection_ and improper use of public electronic communications network under the Communications Act 2003. In addition, he was found in possession of stolen surveillance equipment worth £15,000 that included a highly sophisticated and sensitive directional microphone capable of picking up whispered conversations from great distances. These devices had enabled him to track Chloe and remain unseen as she went about her day. While she was strolling with colleagues to and from work, Pierce had followed her and used the directional mic to record her chats. When she was returning home in the evenings, it picked up her phone conversations which sometimes included her dinner delivery orders with _Tandoori's_.

Four days after the hack attack, PCs Thornton and Boyle appeared at John's doorstep to hand deliver their preliminary report. Their special delivery was a gesture, a courtesy, which John suspected was their attempt at amends for how they had got off on the wrong foot the previous Friday.

They tipped their caps when John thanked them, but hurried back up the steps to the pavement, walking at a brisk pace, before he had time to say anything more.

Their timing could not have been better. It was late. Rosie had been tucked in her own bed and Erika had left two hours prior. John sank onto the sofa and eagerly opened the report. It appeared quite thorough as police reports go and had incorporated the remarks and observations from the separate detective team working Chloe's _Order of Protection_ complaint.

John rang Sherlock.

"John?" The calm voice greeted him.

"I have the police report…"

"Not over the phone. I'll meet you. Say half-past?"

John checked his watch. It was nearly nine p.m. He had first shift the next morning, so whiskey was out. "I'll put on the kettle."

***888***

"It says here…,"

As John read the report aloud, Sherlock placed a plate of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits—personally delivered by Sherlock from the Baker Street 'pantry'—on the living room coffee table before retreating with his cup to listen from the rocking chair.

"…On the night in question, Ray Jain, the man who normally made the deliveries in their neighborhood, did not recall picking up the order for the girls; however, both the wait staff taking the call verified receiving the order and the kitchen chef recalled filling it." John perched himself on the edge of the sofa, shoved an unopened package of balloons aside, and set his mug down on the cluttered coffee table.

"At that time," he continued, "CCTV cameras show Pierce entering the front door of the Indian restaurant. He picked up a takeaway order menu on the pretense of reading it, and then ducked out the side door where the home deliveries are stacked for distribution. Before Ray had gathered his deliveries into his bike sack—he admits sometimes he waits until he has accrued several deliveries before cycling off—Pierce allegedly pinched Chloe's and Erika's order. Two minutes later, another CCTV camera caught Pierce walking with a bundle pressed closed to his chest."

"No surprises here." Sherlock took another swallow of tea. "This Pierce fellow has certainly proven to be an opportunist….with bollocks…!" At John's puzzled look, Sherlock expounded, "Undoubtedly, he is also a raging idiot. He stands at their door waiting to be _paid_ no less when Chloe runs off into the kitchen; he takes advantage of her absence, picks up the closest phone—he has no idea whose—and transfers the open apps. His biggest mistake was exploring the baby monitor app and identifying Erika when he saw her."

"Yeah, a good thing, really," John nodded. "Forensics had a field day, too, I see. I doubt _polyethylene glycol, bisacodyl_ , and _senna_ —a potent laxative cocktail—are among _Tandoori's_ normal 'ingredients.' That bastard!" John growled a few more unmistakable obscenities under his breath before he stopped himself and cleared his throat. "It was Erika's quick thinking that saved the delivery for the police. Chloe had binned the food when Erika realized it might be evidence"

"Hmmm, clever girl," Sherlock commented. "Did you ever bring up the point to Erika that it was ill-advised of Chloe to insist that Pierce be paid for the delivery he had purloined?"

"I'm sure they realized their error, although at the time, Chloe obviously panicked."

"Yes. It would have to have been hysterics. How can anyone think the value of a takeaway dinner would be enough to convince a stalker to stay away? 'Oh, please, sir,'" Sherlock launched into an unflattering, high-pitched voice, "'Take this £20 and never return!'" Back in normal voice Sherlock hissed, "What fantasy world does she inhabit? Even in fairytales, that ploy always fails."

"Be kind!" John scolded gently as if he were talking to Rosie.

"Why would I be kind?" Sherlock pouted. "Especially about such spectacular idiocy?"

"Chloe was possibly in shock, not everyone thinks clearly on their feet, and fear can make people act foolishly," John reminded him. "Regardless, the Court had mandated psychological tests to determine Pierce's mental state, but the man's accrued enough criminal charges—including the stolen surveillance equipment—to land him in prison with a stiffer sentence. It appears there is a decent case and the charges will stick. What I wonder is, how he did find Chloe again?"

"That's not difficult, John, even without the use of the internet." Sherlock crunched into a biscuit and mumbled around it, "Humans and their wagging tongues have been networking since the dawn of language. Inevitably, friends of friends talk to acquaintances of acquaintances. Unless one is serious about hiding, it is not hard to be found. I should advise Chloe, before her stalker's next release—if the courts don't botch the case, that will not be soon—how better to cover her tracks on her next move."

"Which she is preparing to do, but please," John sighed, "don't suggest bolt holes. Ordinary people cannot live that way."

"Why _ever_ not?" Sherlock quipped before he sipped, "What about Erika? Is she moving too?"

"Yes, two doors down from here, apparently." At Sherlock's cocked eyebrow of surprise, John continued. "It's a large flat that has a separate, private suite and sounds ideal. Mrs. Franklin who lives in the flat has been widowed now these past five years. The suite had been her au pair's when her adult children were young, easily twenty-five years ago. When her husband became ill, she had the live-in nurse take residence there. It was a long illness and hard on the poor woman, harder still now, as she does not like living alone."

"That is… _INCREDIBLY_ … _convenient,_ John!" Using the word "coincidence" was not something Sherlock did easily. The very word awakened his suspicions and brought his brother's irritating dictum _'the Universe is rarely so lazy'_ to mind. "How did this all come about?"

"Before you overact, there is a simple explanation." A slight awkwardness laced John's tone. "Um…A single parent, well, _a single father,_ is conspicuous. You said it yourself; friends of friends talk to acquaintances of acquaintances. In this case, neighbors, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly crossed paths with enough frequency…to share…my situation," John shrugged. "When Mrs. Franklin saw Erika and Rosie heading out for their daily strolls, she had thought about proposing this arrangement to me."

Tensing suddenly at the edge of his seat, Sherlock looked skeptical.

"Go on! " John waved a dismissive hand. "You and your snoopy brother have my permission to vet the poor old woman, but I trust you will find nothing of consequence."

"And if we don't, John, you have my permission to persuade me of the existence of miracles—or at the very least, coincidences."

"Ah, yes miracles." John gazed at the coffee table and distractedly picked up the packet of uninflated balloons. He ran his finger along the edge several times until he became aware of what he was doing and dropped it. "I can't say that the religious beliefs of my childhood—life after death and all—come much to mind as an adult, although the miracles of healing that I have witnessed as a doctor sometimes jolt my memories and raise some philosophical if not theological questions. But Mrs. Franklin's proposal to let out her suite to Erika couldn't have come at a better time, and especially, since Erika has agreed to it."

"You'd rather _believe_ in a coincidence, a miracle," Sherlock mocked lightly, aware that John was more serious than he ought to be on the subject, "than acknowledge that it's a bit _too_ good to be true? It would be prudent to determine what else is behind the offer."

"Sometimes, Sherlock, good things _do_ happen as if by chance, and I am grateful _—"_ John muttered and wearily rubbed his eyes. He had not abandoned all rational thinking, but John had found himself wondering if Mary possibly had had a 'hand' in it.

John still 'talked' to Mary even though he had long since accepted she was gone. It wasn't like the hallucinations he had had of her before. That phase of his grief had abated, but there was comfort in speaking to her memory as if she _could_ hear him. Maybe this need was a throwback to his more fervent youth, before he experienced war and disillusionment. Lately, however, John found he _wanted_ to believe again in an afterlife, for it seemed far better for him to be deluded by _a faith_ in something and _Someone_ beyond this here-and-now, than to despair and lose all hope at the bottom of a bottle or the wrong end of a gun.

As John sat with his eyes closed, Sherlock remained silent. Granting his friend the dignity and respect this moment of reflection required, Sherlock was alert for signs that he might be called upon to respond with consolation, as he had done not too long ago.

To his credit, it did not take long for John to prove he was made of sterner stuff. He scrubbed down his face and exhaled with a shake of his head. "The way I see it, Sherlock, there _is_ a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this," his voice was firm with conviction, "and I'm happy that I can take advantage of this lucky break." John clasped his hands together and leant forward, elbows on his knees, as he leveled his gaze with Sherlock's. "I know, I know! You've said it often enough. For you, God is a 'ludicrous fantasy '... 'an invisible magic friend,' but sometimes He-She-It seems to answer one's prayers—through coincidences and small miracles—even when we're too much the idiot to ask. I don't pray as much as I once had done or ought to—I couldn't when you had...gone—" John looked away and bit his lip. Once he cleared his throat, he continued, his focus just beyond Sherlock, "but God knows, I  _do_  talk to Mary, even if she is not physically present. It's as close as it gets to praying but it works for me—" With downcast eyes, John sat back again and reached for his tea.

A year ago Sherlock's response would have been heavy with disapproval to hide his own sense of blame for what John had endured those two years when he had been..."gone." Now, the ache of blame for what happened to Mary—even if John had forgiven him—tempered his reply with genuine compassion. Sherlock's expression softened as he considered how best he might respond. Certainly, he owed John an honest reply. "Hearing you repeat my oh-too- _clever_ words demonstrates how ludicrous and mocking a man I can be. Spouting my antisocial opinions ensures people stay away, as I am a man who prefers solitude to most company—present company excepted, of course," Sherlock smiled at his friend when John looked up. "Even so, I won't dispute that during contemplation, we sometimes benefit from talking things out with 'invisible' friends, whether one purports them to be deities or merely constructs of the imagination. I am sure you haven't forgotten that I too benefit from those internal conversations; talking—to you, even when you are not physically present—has been quite helpful to me. This should not be news to you, John."

Snickering softly at first, John's outright laugh depressurized the high seriousness of their conversation and elicited a silly smirk from his friend. "Yeah," John's eyes swept the room. "You've been doing that for years. I guess now I'm in good company." He wore a pleased grin when he looked again at Sherlock.

"So, tell me," Sherlock returned John's grin, "what is the official time of Rosamund Mary's birthday party on Saturday?"

John was taken aback by the abrupt change of topic.

"Don't look surprised. It doesn't take a genius to see the party preparations are under way. Why else have an excessively large candle, shaped like the number one, on the worktop? Festive paper dishes with matching napkins?" Sherlock pointed toward the kitchen table. "Who does that, unless there's going to be special gathering? Here, on the coffee table you couldn't stop fondling the unopened bag of balloons. I am quite aware that in another twenty-four hours and seven minutes precisely she will have completed her first full year." Sherlock folded his arms across his chest as he leant back in his chair. "You see, I possess an accurate chronometer for calculating the exact date and moment of her first anniversary."

"Are you talking about your brain or your mobile phone?" John teased his friend.

"Focus, John!" Sherlock feigned a glare. "W _hen_ do you plan to hold the ceremony _?_ I'm sure it will be over-the-top cutesy with ridiculous adults donning pointed hats and making such a fuss, when for the child _everyday_ is a celebration of wonder and discovery."

"Half two," John flashed him a cheesy grin. "You _are_ invited of course. Erika and I just worked out the arrangements this evening."

"Short notice. People are busy. Who are the guests?"

"Only our closest _friends._ They have been looking forward to this 'over-the-top cutesy'—as you call it— celebration for quite some time. Friends that they are, they have kept their diaries open."

"So—Mrs. Hudson, Molly? Lestrade? Why a DI from Scotland Yard would attend a child's party when he has investigations to conduct is beyond me. Anyone else?"

"Erika…A few others…assorted neighbors who have helped…I was debating about inviting Mycroft—"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at John's joke. "You know I don't do parties. Anyway, I was present for the actual birth. That was the most important milestone, thank you."

"Yeah, I know…. Thought so," John paused and studied the backs of his hands. "There will be cake. Will you come?"

"I'll think about it."

*****888*****

* * *

 

_A.N: One more chapter left! Tremendous thanks to all you readers for sticking with this story and a special thanks go to my reliable and extraordinarily brilliant betas who always know what needs to be tweaked._


	10. The Gift

*****888*****

*****888*****

Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and the last of the guests had long gone, but it was mere minutes after John had sent Erika home that there was a tap on the door.

"What a _coincidence_ ," John greeted his friend drolly, hardly surprised by the godfather's tardiness. As Sherlock had expressed his reluctance to attend the child's party in the first place, John had held no expectations. To his friends' relentless inquiries about when the detective would be coming, John had responded that Sherlock would probably pull an after-party appearance. Feeling vindicated, John continued his welcome, "You've just happened by when everyone's already gone."

"I'm a busy man. No time for frivolities," Sherlock replied with a slight smirk and looked past John at the birthday girl.

Rosie, too, was busy—with 'frivolities'—happily playing with her new toys. Each time she pushed on a squeaky plush toy or pressed the lever on a plastic console to produce a sound, she broke into contagious giggles. John could not hide his delight in her amusement or the warmth that appeared in his eyes.

Sherlock shrugged out of his greatcoat and hung it on a peg. He studied the toddler on the floor who went gleefully from one honking attraction to the other. "You think this horrid racket will ever get old?"

Unable to take his eyes from his daughter, John watched as she pulled herself to a standing position and wobbled a short distance between the few items that had already become her favorite playthings. "No. She seems to love it."

"I meant for you?" Sherlock's eyes held their amusement long enough for John to see it, then turned to peer around the flat.

The party décor, vestiges of a modest one-year-old's celebration, were strewn about. Colorful balloons dangling from ribbons were tantalizingly out of baby's reach; discarded party hats laid every which way created a city of pointy towers on the coffee table. A sign, hung over the sheer curtains across the large window, wished the one-year-old a "Happy Birthday!" in multicolored, alphabet-block letters.

As satisfied as he was that Rosie had met her one-year developmental benchmarks, Sherlock thought the sign a bit grandiose _—_ the child couldn't read it, after all—but he took it all in without offering any disparagements. "Have I missed much?" he turned to John in feigned innocence.

"Well, let's see: the guests, the food, the party in general, and of course, the cake," John offered in wry good humor.

"Missed the cake! Then what was the point in coming?" Sherlock address the little girl as he folded his long legs and sat on the floor to play with her. The child seemed eager to share the animal-shaped noisemaker in her dimpled fist by hitting her uncle in the shoulder with it.

"Next year, arrive on time," John half-heartedly scolded as he joined them on the carpet and guided his daughter's strikes to a nonhuman target.

Sherlock glared at the noisy toy in her grasp. "You should direct your Daddy to purchase you more worthy tools for play, Rosie! None of these boring, noisy, and useless things." Sherlock's perfected infant-directed falsetto earned a teething-drool smile from the baby. "You want books and lab equipment next year so we can make a foaming volcano. Smashing fun!"

John held his peace but thought that did sound like a smashing idea—when Rosie was about four or five.

888

"Glad that's over; kiddie parties are not my thing. Erika was a trooper," John said later as he pulled the dish of party leftovers for Sherlock from the microwave and slid the plate of steaming stir-fry chicken with pak choi and spring onions across the table. "I'm glad Rosie finally got over her sugar-high and settled down to sleep."

Although John had shoved it a bit too hard, Sherlock's quick reflexes caught the moving plate before it passed him by. "Either you've forgotten your basic secondary school physics about force, mass and friction regarding sliding objects," Sherlock muttered and spurned the fork John had proffered him, "or your daughter's not the only one with a sugar high." From inside his blazer pocket, Sherlock produced carved, red lacquerware chopsticks—the pair he always preferred to the disposable ones that came with takeaway or catered affairs—and tucked in.

"My choice of party cuisine was _that_ predictable," John pulled a face, his hands braced on the back of the kitchen chair, "that you brought your favorite chopsticks?"

"Not a prediction…rather, I anticipated…," Sherlock mumbled around a mouthful of chicken before swallowing. "Chinese and Thai are among your favorite cuisines, your party guests were probably too polite to complain if they thought the fare plebeian, and it is economical when you are serving a crowd. _What?_ " Sherlock responded to John's raised eyebrows by raising his own. "It should come as no surprise to you that I can correctly anticipate the responses of people I know well …especially those who have less discerning palates." Sherlock had ducked his head but not before John had caught the teasing half-smile.

John snorted a laugh through his nose and turned toward the worktop. "You're lucky I saved you leftovers from the party," he chided over his shoulder as he began tidying up the kitchen. "Everyone enjoyed the buffet, and besides, since you weren't there, I am not going to let you tell me anything—."

"—That _still_ holds, then?" Sherlock interrupted by clicking his chopsticks for attention.

"Huh?" Glancing around, John paused with a drinking glass and drying towel in his hands.

"My _not_ telling you anything… you don't want to hear?"

John placed the dried glass in the cupboard then backed against the worktop and shrugged, "Maybe." He lifted the remaining glasses to the cupboard, expecting Sherlock to pester him for a definitive answer, but Sherlock continued eating without a word. Even when John turned back around, Sherlock did not acknowledge him.

"All right, then. I'll bite. You don't keep quiet unless you're thinking or there's something you want to tell me," John sighed.

The chopsticks stilled in midair; Sherlock looked up. "That you were right. I was right. We were _both_ right…"

"About what? The baby-cam-hacking business?"

" _No!_ " Sherlock shook his head. "I mean, yes, yes. We were right about that. Logan Pierce was a stalker, an idiot, a thief, and an amateur tech geek, not part of any big conspiracy. Even someone as stupid as he can commit identity fraud, violate privacy, and threaten the wellbeing of others, showing how incredibly vulnerable internet-connected devices make us. Fortunately, his ilk gets caught. However that was not the case to which I was referring…."

"Well?" John raised his brows impatiently.

"About the Kumar case."

"Oh, _not_ that again!" John shuddered at the memory. "—I've been trying my damnedest to forget the whole thing!"

"It's a shame, as the investigation led to some interesting revelations, especially when the man named Mitchell—Jason Mitchell—came forward to help the authorities."

"God!" John protested with his eyes reading the ceiling. "Why won't this _ever_ go away?"

Sherlock paused. There was a twinkle in his eye. "Are you praying for me to leave, John?"

"That would be a contradiction of miracles now, wouldn't it?" John replied with a straight face before chuckling softly, "although 'not being dead' is not the same thing as leaving, is it?" Giving Sherlock an impish grin, he turned back to replace the cutlery in the drawer and wipe down the worktop. "I guess I'm praying for patience this time."

"Have you considered, John, that you can't 'forget the whole thing,' as you say, because you have a propensity to be curious against your better judgment?"

It took a few more seconds, but as John threw the dish towel over his shoulders he exhaled. "Fine, Sherlock! Get it over with. What did you learn?"

Sherlock's broad smile was wasted on John's turned back, but in the detective's voice the smile could be clearly heard. "Mitchell expressed the same misgivings as Kumar about the 'celebratory' party at the Japanese restaurant. He says it was a large mix of local IT contract workers from a variety of companies, and although he had worked online with all of them on one project or other, a sizable gathering for colleagues who work remotely is hardly a regular occurrence. Mitchell claims he is shy—IT being a good occupation when you prefer to work alone—so he attended the affair very reluctantly. He arrived later than most, ate only appetizers from the bar, accepted a _tokkuri_ of sake from the attentive bartender, and excused himself out before the dinner. He had not planned to eat there anyway."

"He didn't drink the poisoned tea, then?"

"Not everyone was supposed to and not everyone did. Mitchell, along with many of the other IT workers in attendance that night, was not targeted. Only the four, including Kumar, who were working on a specific cyber-security job, for what it later turned out were Russian state-agents, were victimized by their association. One of them had leaked data to _WikiLeaks_ but all four paid for it. It was a cold-blooded assassination in a room full of unwitting witnesses. To the culprits, it hardly mattered that the other three were innocent."

"Still, the other groups were lucky not to have drunk from the wrong teapot…."

"It was carefully doled out, but FSB assassins would merely have considered the untargeted victims as collateral damage. The larger celebration was a cover, so the FSB or GRU agents could poison the specific group all at the same time."

"Bloody hell!" John slid into the chair opposite Sherlock, completely absorbed by the revelations.

"Mitchell admitted to the authorities that his motive for showing up that night was to meet Kumar." After Sherlock cleared the last morsels from his plate, he laid his chopsticks across the dish and dabbed his lips with the excessively cheery party napkin. "Mitchell is an expert hacker in his own right. He had uncovered Kumar's identity from their shared interests on a variety of niche sites, including the cases of Sherlock Holmes by his blogger John Watson." He folded his arms and leant back. "Like Kumar's SLEUTH, Mitchell is a follower of your blog. You remember I mentioned the handle MID HELL?"

"So… " John made the connection, "Mitchell was MID HELL! But how did he know Kumar was SLEUTH?"

"As I must have told you, Mitchell is something of a genius at tracking people's identities and locating their personal information and addresses. Although he was keen to meet SLEUTH in person, when he arrived at the Japanese restaurant, he was careful enough not to introduce himself as MID HELL to Kumar right away—he didn't want the man to fear he was stalker. They chatted about harmless topics they both enjoyed for a short while. When Mitchell finally disclosed who he was, Kumar was receptive and a friendship was born—although it was doomed to die rather soon. Kumar must have enjoyed the idea of a friend with mutual interests; estranged from family and enduring the isolation his secretive job required of him, his must have been a lonely life. They agreed to meet up sometime. It was at that point that Kumar was called away to join his _specific_ IT group at their _assigned_ table," Sherlock placed the stress to illustrate that the entire episode was a planned one. "It was the last supper for those four men who worked on the same assignment."

"Jesus!" John grimaced and pushed back in his chair.

"I assure you no deities were involved. Days later, Mitchell followed up, surprising Kumar by popping over at his flat since they had not exchanged addresses. However, Mitchell was the one in for the greater shock with how sick Kumar appeared. He fixed him tea and wanted to call an ambulance, but Kumar refused, although he did confide in Mitchell about what he thought had happened. Together they came up with the idea of formatting the laptop and hand-delivering it to the surgery of Dr. Watson, known associate of Sherlock Holmes. When Mitchell left the flat, that was the last they saw of each other."

"Goddammit! Fucking _bloody_ bastards!" John slammed a fist hard on the table and bolted out of his seat. Turning away from Sherlock, he planted two hands on the worktop and bowed his head.

Too late Sherlock regretted causing John this additional distress. All the heartache John had endured since Mary died had left the good doctor much less calloused—less emotionally armored—than he had been before. To complicate matters, as he always seemed to do, Sherlock had underestimated the doctor-patient connection John had made with the terminally-ill Jay Kumar. He forgot that the gift of compassion that John possessed in such remarkable quantities was too often a double-edged sword.

Not knowing what else to do, Sherlock reverted to his usual and mistimed levity to soften the blow. "Yes, well, Mitchell has been indispensable with his excellent cyber-security expertise in teaching me to sharpen my hacking skills—they came in handy the other night with your baby cam. However, I've scolded him for his lack of imagination. Going by MID HELL seems uncreative to say the least and very unbecoming of a hacker of his level. I would have suggested a very different alias— if not a twenty-eight word phrase in French, perhaps a corrosive chemical element—"

"I don't care, Sherlock," John told him wearily, unable to rise to the goad despite Sherlock's attempt. When he finally turned back around to speak, his mood had shifted from exhaustion to irritation. "You feel better, now that you've told me, hmm?"

"It's not a matter of _feeling_ better or feeling _anything_ , John," Sherlock replied cautiously, his eyes narrowed as he recognized the tell-tale bulldog set of John's jaw. "It's a matter of being informed. If you expect me to protect you—"

"—It's not your _bloody_ job to protect me! I'm _quite_ capable of taking care of my own family…." The razor edge in John's words cut deep.

Stricken by John's immediate and undisguised rage, Sherlock pushed back from the table, preparing to stand; to leave—

"No! Stay!" With his palm raised to halt his friend, John choked backed his sudden bitterness. There were still moments—too many—when the empty anger over Mary's loss welled up despite the brittle peace he had made with the way things were.

Sherlock lingered in a state of obvious confusion.

"I'm sorry! Sherlock, I apologize! You didn't deserve that." Chagrined, John sank into his chair and sighed. "For Rosie's sake and mine, I do _want_ your help. You are the first person I would go to— _hell_ —you are the _only_ person I would go to, even though I'd rather give help than ask for it." He shook his head and added in a hoarse whisper, "You know, were it still possible, it would be my privilege to continue helping you."

Conceding to his friend's request, Sherlock settled again in the kitchen chair. In John's admission Sherlock heard the contradiction to the firm and cautious choice the doctor and father had made more than a week ago—to remove himself from the dangers of solving crimes. Sherlock had not argued or debated John's decision back then—how could he when a baby's life was in the mix, not just John's? In light of what John had just said, however, Sherlock had to re-evaluate whether his own opinion—unvoiced that night—needed to be heard. He needed to ensure that John would not put his life and daughter at risk or feel their friendship, despite not working together, was in jeopardy by this decision.

"My arrogance in ignoring advice and warnings, especially those issued by Mycroft, is to blame for terrible errors I have made. However, your Mary drove home the lesson that I should have learnt sooner. I must pick my battles judiciously, John, for I am not invincible. Too often before, I have allowed hubris to delude me into making vows impossible to keep, causing more harm than good to those who trusted me and whom I desired to protect. So, you were right when you said that you don't _need_ my protection. I _have_ let you down. I _cannot_ protect you—not completely—nor give you any certainty about the unforeseeable future _._ Yet you say you _want_ my help. All I can offer is my powers of observation, my deductive reasoning, and the conclusions I can draw from the data I collect. If that is the help you want, it shall _always_ be yours."

Sherlock pushed his empty plate aside and rested his elbows on the table. With fingers forming a steeple under his chin, he spoke softly; his eyes focused beyond John. "That said, you must be aware that your past association with me puts you in the crosshairs of my enemies regardless of whether you are an active partner, or even if you prefer to keep your distance from me. To make your new life work, however, I do believe it would be wiser for you to go your own way, and I mine." Sherlock's voice wavered slightly, "I have been reckless in involving my friend and his family in dangerous situations; for that I offer you my profound apologies, John, and deepest regrets. It would be downright unpardonable for me to continue to entice you with the Work when you have a fascinating case of your own. Her name is Rosie. This is and should always be your first focus."

"Sherlock—" John tried interrupting.

"Let me finish, John. Be assured, that although I may seem removed from your life, out of sight and out of touch, I will remain vigilant on your behalf. I will never let my guard down. Of course, you know that whenever you see fit to contact me, there is no need to hesitate; ring me, text me; I will come straightaway. Whether this happens hours from now or years from now it will not matter; it will be as if no time had elapsed."

Touched by Sherlock's raw honesty, John dropped his chin to his chest and pinched the bridge of his nose to hide his emotional turmoil. There was truth in Sherlock's words and it helped John make the decision he now knew would be one of the most important in his and Rosie's futures and their lives—a decision that was turning out not to be a difficult one to make.

Mere seconds later John cleared his throat and resumed in a steady voice, "Let me get this straight. You've just told me, whether we are actually working together or not, that your enemies—hopefully, arch-enemies are a thing of the past, at least—will always see our association as ongoing and can use me to get to you."

"True."

"Yet you think we should go our separate ways?"

Sherlock's "Yes" hissed like a leaky balloon, "to minimize risks."

"Why? What sense does that make?" John huffed. "If what you say is true, even if we lead separate lives, we can't fight public opinion or escape the past. We are and will always be linked, Sherlock—that's how public opinion works. You could publish the truth in _The Times_ and no one would believe it—didn't you learn anything from our encounters with both Moriarty and Magnussen? Besides, I'm beginning to see this strategically. Divided we are weaker; separated we _are_ vulnerable. And, I refuse to become the bait to trap you, especially unwittingly. That too has happened before because you chose to make a unilateral decision regarding protecting me than to confide in me. Your powers of observation, your deductive reasoning, and the conclusions you can draw from collected data are formidable defenses, more daunting than a twenty-eight-word chemical formula password in French. So, the way I see it, there is no point in our fighting perception; there is only one right decision here. We—Sherlock Holmes _and_ Dr. Watson— _must_ stick together."

Sherlock frowned in his struggle to understand John's logic, but even more, his change of heart.

"Don't you see?" John warmed to his argument. "Considering the dangers of being independent of each other, my decision to give it all up was rash, Sherlock. I got scared, okay? Now, I'm more convinced that there is a middle ground to be found here. You keep me in the loop about your cases, boring and interesting ones alike, and I will decide, for the good of my daughter, whether and to what extent I should get involved. At the least, I can be your sounding board, as much as I will miss the legwork. That way you can keep your friends close _before_ you enemies draw closer," John swallowed, surprised by his own boldness in making such a pitch. "You must know I will always consider you my ally, but more importantly, my friend—my best friend, Sherlock."

Sherlock wore a bemused expression not unlike the one when John had said those very same words the last time.

"Oh, there's one more thing, mate. _Charming_ as it was, I _can_ do without the arrogant, in-my-face-git you were when we were still flatmates. You think you can handle that?"

Sherlock hesitated, trying to calculate all the possible scenarios and their permutations within John's proposal. "This negates the gift I had been prepared to offer your daughter for her birthday. You've noticed my deliberate timing—arriving to the party after everyone had gone? Anticipating that your guests would consider my coming empty-handed as further proof that you have been unwise in your choice of best friend and godfather, I stayed away. I did not want my actions to reflect poorly on you."

John shrugged and flicked a soft half-smile. "Oh, here I thought you were merely snubbing tradition or trying not to ruin Rosie's party by annoying everyone..."

"No, John, it's because…my gift..." Sherlock drew in a breath, "...my gift to Rosie would have been to allow her father a lifetime unimpeded by ridiculously idiotic situations that are needlessly life-threatening, so he can enjoy her into his old age."

John's eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped slightly open. It took him a moment longer to overcome his sudden speechlessness and consider the ramifications of Sherlock's gift. "Rosie… would love to..." he began but suddenly changed his mind in mid sentence, "...but no, she can't accept that—" he trailed out, having difficulty finding the right words. "Sherlock, you can't give her _goodbye_ as a present, that's cruel and just like I said, I'll never accept it, at least not the way you are offering it."

"No?" Sherlock whispered so quietly that it was nearly inaudible.

"No. Especially as you've left off the other half of the gift," John said cagily.

"The _other_ half?" Sherlock asked, now utterly bewildered.

"Yes, the other half, which is that Rosie deserves to enjoy a lifetime of learning from her Uncle Sherlock who will do his utmost, especially when on his great adventures, to stay out of _needlessly_ dangerous and ridiculously _idiotic_ situations and to avoid stupid stunts, such as jumping off buildings. This way he will ensure that her mother's ultimate sacrifice was worth it and that her father will have his _friend_ into _their_ old age."

Sherlock swiftly swept his gawp of disbelief under his dismissive demeanor. "You may be asking too much."

"I think not. Nothing is too much for you. I know you can do it. Promise?"

"I hesitate to promise, John … but I will… seriously undertake this commitment," Sherlock pronounced the words cautiously aware of his all-too human limitations, "to the best of my ability."

This time, when the friends locked eyes, they saw in each other a willingness to make things work.

As he rose from his chair, Sherlock felt like a phoenix rising from the ashes, renewed by their mutual decision and the resiliency of their friendship. "When it suits you and your schedule, John," a lopsided smile formed on his lips, "you must bring Rosie round to Baker Street so you can review the cases at hand and decide what might interest you." Spying his chopsticks on the table, Sherlock picked them up gently. With an air of calm satisfaction, he wiped them and wrapped them protectively in the party napkin and returned them to the safety of his blazer pocket.

John also stood, his chin lifted as he made another demand. "Since we've been harping on so much about safety lately, it's time you learn to child proof the damned place... " He cocked one eyebrow, never doubting Sherlock's concession. "Even if it means tidying up some of your clutter and shoving everything dangerous into cupboards."

"Now, you _may_ be asking too much," Sherlock pretended to protest but a smile from ear to ear preceded his one-word reply. "Agreed," he said and turned to leave.

"Hold on!" John waved Sherlock to sit back down. "You've forgotten something." At Sherlock's puzzled frown, John simply said, "Cake. I saved you a slice."

"Yes. Cake! There _was_ a point in coming! Happy Birthday, Rosamund Mary, and many more to come!" Sherlock laughed broadly and deeply. In that moment, the weight of all his most grievous errors, especially those that had so impacted his dear friend, seemed suddenly lifted by John's good graces. And while he had only recently come to acknowledge life's fragility and uncertainty, Sherlock was learning to appreciate what he had _now_ that he had it.

"When all else fails, John," he cried gleefully in imitation of his brother, "there is always cake!"

**_***888***_ **

**_***888***_ **

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"… _It's all about the legend, the stories, the adventures. There is a last refuge for the desperate, the unloved, the persecuted. There is a final court of appeal for everyone._ _When life gets too strange, too impossible, too frightening, there is always one last hope. When all else fails, there are two men sitting arguing in a scruffy flat, like they've always been there and they always will. The best and wisest men I have ever known…my Baker Street boys."_

_[Mary's Voiceover from "The Final Problem." Episode written by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat and transcript by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan.]_

**_***888***_ **

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_A.N._ I originally intended to write a reflective, not a detective story, as I wanted to focus on how Sherlock and John would solve the 'business' of their futures. So, I apologize if the two cases in this story are not as tidy or tied neatly together as a reader may want (Real Life is not that way, and yes, sometimes coincidences are merely coincidences.) As I told one faithful reader, the two cases are meant to be plot devices to show character development. They present John with two options: dissolve his partnership with Sherlock to avoid risks or embrace his partnership to thwart other risks.

I hope you will feel that my focus on these personal issues between Sherlock and John along with the solutions to the two separate but equally important cases have successfully landed them in a better place- where Sherlock and John have cleared the air and can get on with their lives; where these characters can continue to be lifelong friends who mature, grow older and merge more closely with their legendary personas found in the timeless canon.

Special nod to englishtutor and her _"A Watson When You Need One"_ AU series _Chapter 16: For the Love of Lava_ in which Ian Watson and Uncle Sh'ock explore the wonders of how to make a foaming volcano. A delightful read that tickled my fancy, so I borrowed the idea from her fanciful mind.

Another special nod to my insightful beta baillierj who despite her busy life has been a willing sounding board. Last, but not least, I must add special thanks to my silent beta who afforded me the gifts of her exceptional advice and wisdom on all things Canon and the language of friendship.

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A.N. Update: Even though I did not see this quote until 29 August 2017, it corroborates my premise in  _Life After Death_ :

In the _Digital Spy_ entitled ** _"Sherlock season 5 air date, cast, episodes, news and everything you need to know. Was 'The Final Problem' just the beginning?"_  **by Morgan Jeffrery (8 August 2017), Jeffery writes: "Re:  _Sherlock_ 's future - for those of you asking, it's definitely the end. Of Chapter One," Moffat later wrote in January 2017, after the fourth series had aired.

**_"Dr Watson is now Doyle's brave widower and Sherlock Holmes has become the wise and humane version of the main run of the stories (we've focused, so far, on the cold Holmes of the early days.) Whether we ever get to Chapter Two - our boys consciously living the myth and battling wrong-doers - rather depends on our two stars. I'd be slightly surprised if we never made it again. But I've been surprised before."_ **

 


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